Resurrection
by The Hmuff
Summary: When aspiring reporter Jack Davenport meets a hobo in the street, he soon discovers that the man is actually the legendary Tintin, hiding some secret from his past. Though whispers of imminent danger arise, Tintin refuses to take action. The clock is ticking; he must make the choice to reveal his past, or watch as the world burns.
1. Exile

**Prolouge**

The boat swayed, gently, back and forth, beneath the dazzling sun. The placid waves caught the golden light, and sunbeams flickered on the pale blue surface, dancing like underwater flames. The dazzling water stretched out as far as you could see; to the left, all the way to the flat horizon. To the right, up to the shore, where it reached up to lap at the stone wall that separated the ocean from land. Cherry blossoms floated down softly, and from where Tintin was standing by the prow, he could see pale pink petals drifting towards him, swept to and fro by the waves.

Beyond the cherry trees, the pines, the lush green grass, he could see it: the tall, white pillar, stretching up into the sky.

The symbol of a world he knew he could never be a part of.

He was blind to the beauty. He barely even saw it. All he could see was that day. It replayed, over and over, again and again in his mind.

Hands pressed against the rail of the prow, he took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind by breathing in the fresh sea-air, but after a moment, this felt wrong. It felt like he was trying to drag up something from long ago.

He swallowed, and looked away.

The boat couldn't reach land soon enough.

He was lonely. He wanted to be home.

But he knew he could never go back.


	2. A Good Day

**Resurrection**

* * *

**Chapter One**

It had been a good day.

Jack hadn't gotten the raise he was hoping for (in fact, that attempt had fallen flat on its face), but they had said that Jack could cover FDR's speech tomorrow, and that was better than a raise: it was one step closer to becoming one of the team, and that was about all he cared about right now. Get on the team; raises would follow.

There was a spring in his step as he made his way back from the office, the domineering, bleakly grey _The Washington Daily_ building, and to the café.

It wasn't far, and he enjoyed the walk, so it wasn't too long before he arrived, ordered a pint, and was relaxed on a chair, newspaper in his hands, beer at his elbow. Without really meaning to, he found himself listening to the two women behind him chat about children, marriage, the rising prices of coffee, and what have you. He was getting an annoying (albeit useful) habit: his ears were always open. _There are stories everywhere._

The trees, tall and delightfully red, cast dappled shadows over the tables, burnt leaves rasping when the cold wind passed through them. From somewhere high in one of the apartment buildings, a slamming screen door reverberated back and forth between the skyscrapers, so solid and permanent.

Jack flipped open the newspaper. It was distracting to see names of people he knew beneath the articles; even more distracting to see articles that he had read before they had been printed. _Soon my name will be in there, _he thought, almost smugly. He read until he'd finished the story on the latest Cubs game—he hated Chicago, but their sports team was pretty dang good—took a final gulp of his pint, and closed the newspaper, folding it neatly in half. _Cubs, _he thought. _After tomorrow, I'm going to be a cub. Jack Davenport, cub reporter. T_he thought made him grin. Jack was a realist. He wasn't the type to dream big and then get angry when fulfilling his dreams took time: people who planned on this kind of process and then got impatient were just idiots. You couldn't just skip steps on a journey. No, Jack was more than happy to take each step— office grunt to cub reporter to world-famous reporter— and take them slow and steady. And as far as he was concerned, grunt to cub was a pretty big step.

He glanced at his watch. It would be getting dark soon. _Should be heading back._

The distant murmur of traffic blended perfectly with the serene sound of the wind rustling dead leaves across the cobblestone street. Bikers sped past, bells jingling to alert people of their presence. It all melded together, somehow; there was a kind of lazy rhythm to city sounds. Jack blew out a cloud of breath into the cold air, watching it fade away beneath the pale October sky. _It was a good day, _he thought happily, shoving his cold hands into the pockets of his cords.

_/_

It was six o'clock in the afternoon before Jack got home. The first thing he did was hang up his blazer and hat at the coat rack, and then run into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower, feeling the warm, pulsing water ease away some of the tension of the day. He needed to relax. He needed to take his mind off reporting. It would be hard, though. Especially when he needed this opportunity _so _much, especially if he was to go to Europe and cover the war before the bloody thing was over. It wasn't that he wanted the war to last longer: he just wanted his intern to be shorter. He would do just about anything for a plane ticket to Europe.

Jack got out of the shower, made his way to the mirror to shave, and surveyed his reflection across from him with satisfaction. He thought he was good looking, in a rugged sort of way: shaggy brown hair with a slight wave, serious hazel eyes, a strong jaw, which he was convinced gave him a strong, defiant air. Grinning to himself, he shaved, pulled on his bathrobe, and made his way to the kitchen, where he began pulling ingredients out of the cabinets and icebox, fully intending to make fried rice. He stared at the eggs and rice on the counter for a little while, wondering how long it would take to make fried rice, and then took out the frying pan and made fried eggs instead, and thought about how hopefully it wouldn't be too long before he got a wife. He heated up a saucepan of milk and made hot cocoa, and then turned on the radio and reclined on the sofa, sipping his drink.

After a while, Jack finally shut the radio off, flipped off the lights, and crawled into bed, curling into the thick, comfortable blankets. Even with his mind distracted, thinking about the war and his day and wishing for a trip to Europe, it wasn't long before his eyelids began to drift shut, and sleep overtook him.

It had been a very good day.

/

The sound of the phone ringing dragged Jack to groggy wakefulness. A small, indignant part of his brain tried to convince himself that he was just dreaming, but in vain; he was too practical for that. After a few moments spent fumbling for the phone in the pitch-black room, his groping fingers finally closed over the receiver. He clamped the cold metal to his ear.

"Guh?"

"Davenport!" The familiar voice crackled annoyingly cheerfully over the line. "How's my homeboy?"

'Homeboy' seemed like a bit of an overstatement, but Jack didn't feel up to debating right now. Apart from hanging up the phone and going back to sleep, he didn't really feel up to doing anything. "Uh… um, Harry. Haven't seen you in a while."

"I know, right? I heard you got a beat. FDR, right?"

He groaned internally. "Maybe." He picked up the alarm clock by his bed, as if the hour could gauge for him how he was feeling. After squinting at the face for a moment, he decided that the hour hand was a little past 4. _He's calling me at 4 in the morning? _

"Washington Daily?"

"Yeah." Annoyance was beginning to override his drowsy confusion, and he added, "Look, Harry, this isn't really the time to—"

"That's great! Because I'm covering for the Examiner, and I thought we could, you know, team up or something."

"The Examiner?" Jack blinked, adjusting his position so that he was leaning against the headboard of his bed. "You mean the paper with all that sensationalist crap?"

"Jaaaack…"

"Look, I'm not just going to share beats." He couldn't believe Harry would even try and suggest that. Who went around sharing beats? He knew the guy could be dumb, but that was just overdoing it.

"Just this once?"

"No, Harry. Look, I'm going back to sleep."

"Come on, man."

"No."

He didn't even wait for a further reply. The handset dropped onto the base with a satisfying click.

Groaning internally, he settled back into the bed, blearily looking at the clock again. 4:21.

_Oh, man. _Harry would hear about this tomorrow.

/

"So long sad times, go along bad times, we are rid of you at last…"

Jack absently hummed along with the choir and marching band as he made his way near the podium. FDR hadn't arrived yet, but judging by the military guard swarming to the podium, the man himself would be making his entrance fairly soon.

The podium was decorated with banners and flags and the kind of patriotic-themed paraphernalia that typically accompanied these sorts of occasions. He snapped a couple pictures out of a sense of duty.

"Happy days are here again! The skies above are clear again!"

Ironically enough, the skies above happened to be heavy and overcast and drizzling softly, but the choir sang on undaunted.

The camera was a huge weight around Jack's neck. It swung back and forth, hitting his chest with each step he took. It didn't help that he was dead beat after that morning's conversation. He hadn't been able to fall back asleep; he'd tossed and turned, waiting for sleep to come. But sleep had abandoned him: it had loved him and left him, as the saying went—and his entire body felt stiff and sluggish as a result.

_But you'll have to get used to that._

Jack had heard all the horror stories about reporting, and for the most part, they had failed to daunt him. He'd never heard any about the cameras, though. He glanced down, regarding it with frustration. It was driving him insane, but he knew he'd have gotten used to it in the next couple of months. The thought of that made him able to almost forget about how annoying it was, banging against his chest, over and over, like a bratty little kid knocking at a door.

Part of Jack felt bad that he had been rude to Harry the night before. It wasn't that Jack _disliked _Harry Nieuport. Nobody could actually _dislike_ somebody so genuinely stupid. Everybody just found him to be something of a bloody nuisance. Harry was also one of those people who sincerely liked everybody, and made you feel bad when you just couldn't force yourself to like him back. Besides: he had wanted to steal Jack's beat. That was simply unacceptable. And what on earth was he doing calling at 4 in the morning? Unacceptable.

"Davenport! Davenport, hey!"

Jack's heart clenched in terror.

Tousled red hair flying back by the breeze, Harry Nieuport came trotting towards Jack, a fingerless glove raised in salute.

_Run._

Pressing his ivy cap further down on his face, Jack turned heel and began striding in the opposite direction, attempting his hardest at looking casual. Flipping up and buttoning the collar of his corduroy jacket, he tossed his cigarette on the ground and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to make as much distance between him and Harry as possible.

"Your cares and troubles are gone," warbled the choir, "there'll be no more from now on, from now on…"

"That's what you think," Jack muttered, inbetween pants for breath. He was so busy running, without any heed as to where he was going, that when he rounded the corner of the campaign stall, he didn't even see the man until their bodies were slamming into each other's. Jack fell backward onto the ground, his mouth a perfect 'o' of surprise. He was dimly aware of the man opposite doing the same.

It took a moment for his brain to gather what was going on. He was on the ground; his tailbone throbbed; and there was a man across from him who was stretched out on the cobblestones.

"Sorry!" he squeaked, picking himself up.

The stranger didn't say anything. He didn't even move.

_I bet he's really hurt, _Jack thought, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He leapt to his feet and reached out a hand, but the stranger didn't take it.

Slowly, painfully, the man picked himself up, getting to his knees, and then to his feet.

"You okay?" Jack finally asked.

"I'm fine," he replied hoarsely.

For the first time, Jack got a good look at the man. He was about Jack's height, perhaps a bit shorter, and maybe about twenty years older. It was hard to tell, though, what with that beard and shoulder-length hair.

"You homeless?" he asked casually, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could check them.

The stranger grunted, looking away from him and back towards the podium.

"What's your name?"

Jack had a feeling that the man wasn't about to answer, but before he even had a chance, the crowd around them began cheering.

"Oh!" he said. "I need to get to the stage. See you!"

He dove towards the stage, camera in hand, snapping pictures of the stage as he went. FDR was walking out towards the podium—well, limping out, anyway—and was halfway there before the shot rang out into the air.

The screams of excitement quickly turned into screams of horror. The crowd surged backward, like a wave going the wrong way, but didn't actually run: they weren't sure whether to run to their president, or run for their lives. Eventually, they decided to run for their lives. As the police swarmed towards FDR, who was standing there, quite fine, a giant, screaming mass of humanity dashed in the opposite direction. Everybody except for Jack.

He ran closer, camera in hand, taking pictures of the president. And when the police dove into the crowd, dragging forward an angry looking man holding a gun, he snapped pictures of that, too.

_Yes, yes, yes, yes! _He thought. _I'm going to be all over the news tomorrow! Yes!_

The president was being wheeled away, so he guessed he wouldn't get an audience. But someday. Someday soon: like when his story was the headlines of _The_ _Washington Daily._

He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the stranger was still there. Just standing there, relaxing against the side of the stand, watching.

_Huh._

Jack stood there for a while, watching the man watching. After a moment he shook himself mentally and walked closer to the stage.

_This is going to be a good day._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yay! Chapter one! I love writing new books!

Oh, and have no fear: this is indeed a Tintin story. I'll just warn you: it just might take a chapter or two for him to show up.

And guess what? I don't own Tintin! (Mind blown!)


	3. An Adventure Life

**Chapter Two**

"Welcome to The Washington Daily, Davenport," said Max Bird, reaching forward and gripping Jack's hand. "Good to meet you. I'm Max Bird, Bureau Chief, and this is Normand Presley, our section editor…" His voice droned on, and after about five seconds, Jack stopped paying attention, positive he'd never be able to remember all their names and positions. He found himself staring blankly at Max Bird's face. Bird was one of those heavy-set men with big, happy smiles and small, suspicious eyes. His grin never really reached those eyes, Jack thought, feeling somewhat bothered by the fact. After a moment, a warning bell in his mind told him that Bird was finishing up, and he snapped back to attention just in time to hear, "Anyway, glad to have you on the team."

"Thank you, sir," Jack replied, wincing slightly at the man's handshake. "I'm very honoured to be—"

"Yeah, yeah, of course you are." Bird interrupted, letting go of Jack's hand and waving his cigarette into the air dismissively. "Good work on the FDR murder attempt. We need more reporters like you. Hope to see you around."

He turned his back on Jack and walked out of the bullpen, slamming the door behind him.

"And that's the boss," said a tall, fair-skinned man, leaning against the water cooler, wearing a sharp grey suit that seemed to be a size too big. On first glance he looked about forty, but there was something so genuinely unassuming about his face that Jack was pretty sure he was way younger than he looked; he'd probably been one of those people who had lived like crap once and now looked ten years older than they really were. The man took a step forward, reaching out and firmly shaking Jack's hand. "Leslie Locke, copy editor."

"And therefore the most serious out of all of us," said a man that Jack remembered as Ethan. He looked about the youngest of the three; late teens, perhaps early twenties. "Hey, cub. Welcome to the cave. Good job on your story."

"Thanks."

A woman with glamorously waved brown hair, probably in her early thirties, leaned forward, a charming smile stretched across her face. "Hey, mate," she said. "I'm Gwendolyn Kingsley, Mr Argyros's secretary." She said the word like it was poisonous. It was clear she wasn't content with her position. "Hey, you got lucky, didn't you? With the FDR speech?"

There was something lilting—almost musical—about her voice. Jack liked it. It was some kind of European accent, he knew that, though he couldn't place where. He wanted to ask, but he just said, "Reporters don't believe in luck," and Gwen laughed.

"The Examiner covered it, too."

He slapped his palms on the desktop, shaking his head. "Pffft!"

"I second that," said Gwen.

Normand Presley saluted Jack quickly, and then went back to his work, hunching over his desk and glaring at his typewriter. Jack decided quickly that they weren't going to be friends.

Introductions over, Ethan leaned forward a little, fingertips steepled, a slight frown across his face. "Want a tip?"

"Sure," he said cautiously.

"Okay, so: cut with the humility."

Jack frowned, sure the man was joking, but Ethan's tone and expression were perfectly grave.

"Rule number one of being a reporter. If you're going to be demanding answers from people, you can't bow and scrape."

He gulped. "Oh. Er. Okay."

"Belt up, Ethan," Gwen scolded, shaking her head despairingly. Turning towards Jack, she explained, "He's teasing. Mostly. Reporters should be confident. Maybe not cub reporters, but, yeah, he, er, does has a point. He's not… _all… _stupid."

"Heh, thanks." Finally giving up at trying to guess where she as from, Jack added, "So, not from around here?"

Her brown curls bounced as she shook her head. "Born in Belfast. Moved to London when I was eighteen. Intern from the Uxbridge Gazette. Came here after the blitz. German bombs and what have you." She poured a glass of Jack Daniel's for herself, leaned back into her chair, and winked at Jack. "Really, don't listen to a word Ethan says. He's an idiot."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah: speak for yourself. So!" Ethan suddenly slapped his hands on his knees, making Jack jump. "Jack Davenport, eh? I'm Ethan Hayes. Read your story, man. Good stuff, good stuff. You got it in you, that's for sure. How old are you, anyway?"

He frowned slightly, aware where this question was going. "Nineteen in December."

Leslie raised his eyebrows. "You're eighteen?" he asked, speaking for the first time since he introduced himself.

_Not again. _He _hated _that question. He knew he looked young, but not _that _young. Taking his cigarette case out and waving a cigarette, he said, "I hope so. Otherwise smoking this would be against the law." He lit it and put it between his lips, for emphasis.

Gwen grinned. "And would that stop you?"

"Ehh. Maybe." Jack leaned back in the chair, kicking his feet on top of the table and crossing his arms behind his head. "Anybody got something to drink?"

"Knock yourself out," said Gwen, pushing the bottle of Jack Daniel's forward. "Normally they don't want alcohol inside the bullpen, but… er… okay. They don't want alcohol inside the bullpen." She leaned forward a little and whispered, "Don't tell, but I borrowed it from Mr Argyros, our 'ethics maven.' Ironic, I know. But don't worry, he won't rat. I'd be more concerned about that one."

"Ha ha," said Leslie, listening in and well aware she was referencing him. He was still leaning against the water cooler, and tossed Jack a paper cup.

He accepted it gratefully, filled it to the brim, and downed the whisky in one gulp. "So what's he like?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Max Bird? The big boss?"

Gwen muttered something that sounded like an obscenity.

"He's like a giant paper shredder," cut in Ethan. "You just keep feeding him more and more stories, but he never stops demanding." Ethan imitated cramming papers down the mouth of a paper shredder. "The bigger the story, the longer it takes for him to chew on it, and the bigger of a reprise you get. But pretty soon, even that's all ripped up, and you're on to your next article. You gotta keep on feeding him: it's the only way you can save yourself from getting your hand stuck in his maw," Ethan said. It was probably either a sudden burst of inspiration, or a rehearsed speech. "Jack, if you thought being a grunt down here was tough, let me tell you something: being a reporter is a thousand times harder than being some coffee-fetching grunt. At least grunts get sleep."

Leslie added, "Anticipate living on coffee and adrenaline."

"You are going to wake up some days and wonder why on earth you ever decided to become a reporter," continued Ethan, raising a finger, a dream-like tone to his voice.

"And what will carry me through?" he asked, half-jokingly.

"Coffee and adrenaline," Leslie quipped, from the corner, crossing his arms and adjusting his position against the water cooler.

Gwen sniggered, and opened her mouth to say something, when the door to the bullpen suddenly swung open.

"All right, break over!" said the man entering. Jack couldn't see his face, only caught a glimpse of a pink dress shirt and corpulent stomach.

"Good morning," said Leslie, who was incidentally no longer leaning against the water cooler, instead sorting through a handful of papers and trying hard to look busy.

"Heh," he grunted, apparently by way of reply. Drawing himself up, he shouted, "Hey! Davenport!"

Jack turned to face him. "Yes, sir?"

"Come into my office!"

"Yes sir." He stood up, brushing aside his cup, and followed the man towards his office.

"Good luck!" Gwen whispered.

Jack wasn't sure if that was encouraging or not.

/

"So, kid." Argyros poured himself a glass of whisky and leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet on top of the desk. It shook with the sudden weight. "What makes you think you got it?"

Jack had been looking around the office, surveying the tacky decorations with distaste, and froze when he realised he had been asked a question. "Got what, sir?"

"Got the stuff to be a world-famous reporter."

He paused. He was aware that what he said could determine the fate of his career. _Confidence. Ethan said act confident. _"I'm willing to take risks," he said. "I'll do whatever it takes to get the story."

"Looking for adventure?"

Jack shrugged. "Maybe."

Argyros grunted, throwing his head back and taking a gulp from his glass. A bead of whisky trickled down a wrinkle on the side of his mouth and was lost in the folds of fat on his neck. "Heh. Odds are, you aren't gonna find it."

"That depends on my beat," he replied smoothly.

The man looked at him for a second, and then laughed wheezily. "Ah, kid. Don't tell me you're one of those buttholes who thinks they're going to be some world adventurer. Ha ha!"

Feeling himself stiffen, Jack said, as steadily as he could, "With all due respect, sir, I think I'm more practical than that."

"You better be! Do you know how many morons we get in here?" Argyros gestured with his arms, knocking over the glass of whisky. It spilled over the desk, forming an amber pool over the oak surface. "Half of them even have a little white dog named Snowy. Wooah! Wooah!" He burst out laughing again, but the sound quickly dissolved into a coughing fit.

"Snowy?" Jack asked, thoroughly confused.

"That idiot Tintin."

"I like Tintin," Jack said automatically. He could see the words slipping out of his mouth and floating away, out of his reach, like balloons drifting into the blue.

Argyros stopped laughing long enough to pin Jack with an appalled glare. "You _like _Tintin?"

"A long time ago." _Backpedal, Jack. _"I read some stuff about him. When I was little. Real little."

"You _like _Tintin?" he almost roared. Groaning with the exertion, he got to his feet, kicking the chair backward as he glared Jack down. "Let me tell you something, Davenport. If you've walked into this building with the faintest, dimmest notion of living some Robert Louis Peterson adventure story life, you're a moron. And we're gonna either kick that crap out of you, or kick your butt off our steps," he enunciated, jabbing a sausage-like finger into Jack's chest.

"You mean Robert Louis Ste—"

"Shut up!"

"Yes sir."

"Where was I? Oh yeah: Tintin. That fool's given me grey hairs."

Argyros was as bald as a rock, but that was a minor detail Jack decided it was safer not to mention. "Well, sir, it has been years since we heard about the whereabo —"

"They just keep coming! They think that they're going to be oh just like him! Chasing down criminals and exploring... exploring exotic rainforests, and dragging down dictators, and when Bird tells them to cover anything other than Communist Russia, they throw down their camera and march off all offended."

"That's too bad," said Jack falteringly.

"Yeah. Do you know what you're going to write about 90 percent of the time? Local carnivals, fundraisers, and the opening of new dog parks. That's what. So you get rose-coloured dreams about globe-trotting adventures out of your skull."

"Already gone," he said innocently.

"Great. Now, Bird wanted me to give this to you…"

/

"What a day."

Leslie looked up from his typewriter, his usually placid expression only mildly confused. "What happened?"

Throwing his briefcase onto his desktop, Jack slumped onto a chair. "Argyros dissed me for reading Tintin."

Ethan snickered. "You read Tintin?"

"Like crap I do. I flipped through it when I was six." That was a flat out lie, but he felt better about lying than describing how absolutely obsessed he had been with the Belgian. His parents asked him if he wanted superhero comics. Jack wanted Tintin. His parents were reading the newspaper. Jack asked for the papers about Tintin. It was _always _Tintin, where did Tintin just go, would he make it out okay (though of course he would: Jack had had complete faith in the young reporter), what new criminals was he dragging down now. He was like a superhero crossed with Sherlock Holmes (or Hercule Poirot; take your pick) only a billion times better, because he was real. And he was a lot cooler than that dumb Superman comic that had started 3 years ago and had been gaining popularity since. Superman? What kind of name was that? And who read that junk, anyway? Tintin had had class... he had had _real _bravery...

"Argyros has serious beef with Tintin. He says he glamorized reporting."

"Well," Jack admitted, "he kinda did."

Leslie asked, "Am I the only person in the room who has no idea what 'Tin Tin' is?"

Ethan said, "Some foreigner who got himself killed. Or something."

"Hey. At least your story made headlines," Gwen reminded Jack. "Your day couldn't have been _that _bad."

"True, true. Yeah… I got real lucky."

"Reporters don't believe in luck," she said teasingly, referencing their previous conversation.

"Shut up, woman." Shaking his head at her, but chuckling, he pulled the papers that Argyros had given him out of his briefcase. "Okay. Now let's see…"

He quickly scanned the paper. It was a lot of junk related to the FDR murder attempt, but Bird wanted a report on it…

"When do I get to come to Bird with ideas for a story?"

"Soon." Ethan shrugged, settling his cup of coffee on his desktop. "You're still a cub."

"Meh. Yeah, I know."

"Is it better than being a grunt?"

Jack snorted. "You kidding me? You bet."

/

Researching the follow-up to the FDR situation was a matter of mere hours, and Jack got back to the bullpen quickly and typed out his story. It was a good story, well written, and he had managed to make it interesting. Probably not another headliner, but it was good stuff, and he knew it. So did everybody else in the building. Except maybe Mr Argyros, who still glared at him every time they passed in the hallway. He finished his report, gave it to Bird (who gave it back, then Jack edited it and gave it back to Bird, who took it and told him to go home), closed up his desk, then threw on his overcoat and stepped out of the building.

The rain hadn't stopped from yesterday, and it was still drizzling softly as he made his way down the steps and back to his house. It was dark out, about 8:30, but streetlights lit his way back home. He was lucky to have a house. If his parents hadn't fully paid for the house before they'd passed, he'd probably be living in some crummy little apartment right now. If he had a house at all. He could be living on the streets, like that man he had met yesterday.

Jack found himself almost wishing that the gun hadn't gone off, and he could have had more time to talk to the man.

_But then I wouldn't have had my story._

Before he turned out the lights and turned in for the night, he found an old stack of newspapers and began digging through them. At first, he wasn't sure what he was looking for. Then he realised he was looking for stories about Tintin.

Shaking his head, he replaced the papers, turned off the lights, and closed the bedroom door. It was a matter of minutes before he fell asleep.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Stupid Jack thinks he's too cool for Tintin... :(


	4. The Stranger

By the way… *blushes*… chapter 2 has been edited. In a careless moment, I wrote something stupid without even thinking about it: basically, Jack has not been drafted, not because of health problems, but because this book takes place in October of '41 and America didn't join WWII until December. My bad. If this was a movie, that would go under bloopers (or big embarrassing historical discrepancies.)

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" came the old, familiar cry of newsies in the streets; the words repeated so often that they were as easy to ignore as the sound of car horns, or the chatter of people passing by. Jack dropped a nickel into the hands of a particularly scruffy-looking newsy, received his paper, and snapped it open, glancing over the contents as he strolled down the busy sidewalk. Nothing of interest; some member of congress had said they wanted war with Germany. He had meant it to be off the record, but as it often so happens, it had ended up onthe record, and all of America was indulging in the congressman's embarrassment.

Having been up until 4 AM interviewing people about a recent fire in an important rubber factory, he had accidentally slept in late and hadn't had any time make himself breakfast. He stopped to buy a cup of coffee from a nearby vendor near the train station.

"You read about this?" the coffee seller said, holding up a newspaper

Raising his own copy of the news, Jack nodded. "Mm-hm."

"Can't believe it."

Jack nodded again and smiled politely, paid for his bagel and coffee, and continued his walk. It was only three blocks from there to the austere _Washington Daily _building, but it felt like longer. He was tired, and not just in a physical way. He felt worn-out inside. Two weeks since he'd become a reporter for _The Washington Daily. _Two weeks, and he'd only had one really interesting story. It also bothered him that while he was normally cool-headed, he could feel the stress bearing down on him. He was overcommitting himself. Being a reporter was a stressful life. But, he reminded himself, they were stressful times. Even if they weren't _stuck _stuck in the Depression, Europe was in shambles, tearing itself apart—thousands were dying—and Hitler was just as bent on driving it to the brink as he had two years ago, when the whole bloody thing started. Jack didn't want war; he didn't want it at all. But he could sympathise with the congressman. Somebody needed to do _something _about this. Just maybe war wasn't the answer.

When he entered, he realised immediately that he had failed to comprehend what a big deal the news had been. Everyone was in uproar; the quiet sort of uproar that went on inside of workplaces. The strains of heated conversation drifted into hearing as he passed by employees at their desks.

"…can't believe he had the gall…"

"…does he want our kids to die or something…"

"…who does he think he is…"

"…won't see me voting for him next…"

Shaking his head, he snapped open his briefcase and started on his day.

It was 3 in the afternoon before he saw Gwen. This wasn't unusual; as Argyros's secretary, she was a busy woman. So it wasn't shocking that he saw her so late. No; what was shocking was her expression. Her usually glamorous brown hair was mussed, her eyes burning, words she desperately wanted to say obvious there in her face.

"Did you read this?" she barked, shoving a newspaper in Jack's face the moment he sat down at his desk.

It was the one about the politician saying that America should join the war; not only that, but it was the same newspaper that he had purchased that morning. He read it over again, suddenly wondering if he had missed anything in the article.

He had not.

"Um… wow," he said, weakly, wondering what on earth the woman was going on about.

"Wow? _Wow?_ That's all you can say?" Grinding her cigarette into the ash-tray on Jack's desk, she blew a cloud of smoke from out of her nose, giving her a devil-like look that went well with her furious expression.

Ethan appeared from behind Gwen, poking his head over her shoulder.

"Gwen, you don't need to get so mad. That mug didn't even mean it."

"What? You think that's why I'm mad?" Her eyes burned as she wheeled around on her heel, pinning Ethan with a glare. "I'm mad because America is mad! Sod it, you stupid Americans! We—Britain_—_we're dying to protect you, over in Germany, and all you can do is denigrate the few Americans who want to do the right thing!"

The conversation around them quieted as heads turned, turning to see who it was who was shouting, first of all, and second of all, who was shouting such junk.

"For a woman in a male-dominated work environment, you voice your opinions loudly," remarked Leslie, leaning nonchalantly against his desk, a pen dangling from his fingertips.

"That's pathetic. There are twenty other women here." Gwen tossed her head, clearly unfazed by all the angry glares that had just been directed at her. "Does anybody here agree with me?"

"Nobody who's sane," said Ethan.

"You just got the right to vote," Leslie yawned, straightening up only to fall back into his chair. "What more could you want? A seat in the White House, perhaps?"

"You bleeding s—" She looked like she wanted to say more, but instead grit her teeth, wheeled around, and walked towards the door, pumps clicking on the linoleum tile as she marched off.

It was a long time before the muttered dialogue restarted; this time, it was a good deal quieter.

"Hmm," said Jack thoughtfully, lightly tapping his knuckles with the end of his pencil. He had some thoughts in his mind, but nothing he could really formulate, so he said it again: "Hmm."

"Getting an idea for another headliner?" asked Ethan teasingly.

He half-grinned. "Maybe." But he didn't elaborate; instead, he stood, exited the bullpen, and made his way to the door out. When he opened it up, Gwen was standing there, slouched against the brick side of the building, a cigarette between her lips. She shot a half-hearted glare at him as he closed the door softly behind himself.

"Having fun?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, I'm grand. Getting beat up for not being American… getting dissed for being a woman… it's great craic," she retorted.

He crooked the corner of his mouth into a grin. "Great what?"

"Don't you start."

Shrugging, he said, "Look, I had this idea. I'm going out into the streets to talk to people about this. If you really want your opinions out there, I can interview you, and you can… you can just go anonymous."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up with unguarded hope, but just as quickly fell. "Ahh, I don't know," she admitted, tossing her cigarette onto the wet cobblestones. "Americans are stubborn mules. Besides, people here don't take anonymous sources seriously. I've been six years at the job, mate; I know how it goes. But thanks anyway."

"No problem."

There was a long pause, and then she added, "Anyway, it wouldn't have worked: I'm heading home as soon as I can. I'm right knackered."

"Me too."

Shaking her head, she said, warningly, "You're going to kill yourself."

"Coffee and adrenaline," he said brightly, and Gwen sniggered.

"Leslie's a pig. A cute pig. But a pig." She looked down, sighed, and ground her cigarette butt into the cobblestones. "Anyway, break's over. Thanks mate, and good luck."

"Thanks." He nodded to her. "See you later."

/

An hour later, Jack informed Leslie that he was clocking out early, and exited the building at 4 PM. The wind was hard and bitter. It was already growing dark; he could see the city lights come alive as twilight fell, in that ephemeral moment of dark blue that precedes the night.

The darkening air was quiet and still. Cars squealed and honked, off in the distance, but too far away to be loud; the evening traffic hadn't started yet, and it was still relatively quiet. The wind rustled through the trees before him, playing with the few stubborn leaves that tough enough to hold on to the black, rain-drenched trees this late into October.

Jack found himself making his way towards the harbour. It was colder here; winds carried a bite from travelling over the Atlantic Ocean. His pulled on his gloves—leather ones that had cost him over a dollar—and began to walk along the sidewalk at the edge of the harbour. People were scattered, here and there, like a handful of chicken feed; dotting the benches, straggling by the docks, their number decreasing by the second.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he surveyed the scene. He had so many memories tied to this place. The grey water sweeping out in front of him; the dead trees towering behind him, perfectly framing the city that rose up seemingly from their upper branches. They weren't sad memories—that wasn't it. No, they were happy memories. It was because of this that remembering them made him feel sad.

Shivering slightly, he walked towards a clump of pedestrians, already taking out his notepad. But before he even arrived, they had dispersed, and where ten or eleven people had been, now there was only one.

It was the hobo.

He was sitting on a bench, elbows resting on his knees, a cigarette dangling from between his lips. He was just staring out to sea, and as Jack got closer, he could see the man's expression. Not longing, exactly. Wistfulness, perhaps; but it was a hopeless wistfulness, mixed with a good amount of what Jack could only call jadedness and bitter exhaustion.

"H—hello," Jack stammered, feeling his notebook droop in his hand.

The stranger looked up, his eyes searching Jack. His brow furrowed slightly, he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and blew out a soft stream of smoke. He didn't say anything; he waited for Jack to talk.

Jack stood there awkwardly for a few moments, until he finally snapped out of it. "I—I'm Jack Davenport, reporter for _The Washington Daily. _I was wondering if you'd mind answering a few questions." His tone and quick pace were clumsy and uneven, and he could feel warmth rising to his cheeks.

_What was I going to ask him? _For whatever reason, he couldn't remember now—it was something unimportant, he remembered that—something about a politician.

The stranger looked at him for a moment longer, before returning his gaze to the harbour. "Yes?" he asked, and his voice was surprisingly rough.

For some reason, that finally woke Jack up. He shook himself mentally and raised his notepad again. "Would you care to comment, sir, on whether or not America should go to…to…"

But then the notebook fell back down to his side, and after a pause, he just stuck it in his briefcase, walked up to the hobo, and sat in the bench next to him.

"What's your name?"

The man stared at him for a long time, questioning, and then finally said, "Why?"

"I—I don't know, exactly." He swallowed, frowning slightly. "You remind me. Of someone. I'm sorry; have I met you before?"

Shaking his head, the man took his cigarette from his mouth and balanced it between his fingertips. The fingers of his gloves were cut off, Jack noticed. "No."

"Who are you?" Jack asked again, his voice softer. "What are you doing here?"

He just shrugged.

"Okay," said Jack. There was a long silence, so he said it again. "Okay." After a long time, he stood up and walked away from the bench.

_Fine, _he thought.

/

"…and because of that, then if Great Britain falls, then Germany wins the war, and America is destroyed!"

"Excuse me, sir," said Jack, elbowing his way through the cluster of people that had gathered to listen to the speaker, shouting at the street corner. Eventually he gave up asking politely and just butted his way through.

"We must not let the people of Britain and Russia die to protect us!"

Mingled with the muttered affirmation and nodding heads were sparse boos and shaking fists. Jack did his best to avoid the hecklers and get on through the crowd as fast as he could.

He couldn't get his mind off that man. Now that he thought about it, he had seen him before. He knew it. He thought perhaps at pubs; maybe just sitting by the harbour as he had been, mere hours ago. But why had he never noticed him until now?

It didn't make sense.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I've been listening to depressing music all day, so I had a hard time writing a non-angsty chapter. Come to think of it, this entire book has been non-angsty so far.

…haha, I didn't know I could even do that.

Sorry if the lingo is a little non-1940's-ish. After Silent Night, which took place entirely in one location, it's so nice to write a story in the wide open world and I'm probably taking too many liberties with my nice new cast and such. I'll probably tone it down. Maybe. Unless you don't mind, which is certainly a possibility.

I know the story is a bit slow right now, but... reviews?


	5. You're Tintin

**Chapter Four**

Morning saw Jack wandering out by the harbour, hands crossed pensively behind his back, head tilted down towards the ground. His camera swung back and forth at his chest as he walked through the pale hints of early morning light, through the fog rolling in from the sea.

Today, Jack had felt as if he needed some time by himself, before he entered the bullpen. For whatever reason, he felt… no, shaken wasn't the word. But talking with that man yesterday had disquieted him, for whatever reason; he couldn't take his mind off of it.

_Time to get back to work, Jack._

He sighed, staring at the building of _The Washington Daily. _He could see it from here—the bleak, grey pile of bricks that meant three things to him: work, work, and more work.

At least he had friends, he thought, as he trudged through the city, through the building's doors, and into the bullpen. He'd only been at the job for a little over two weeks, so he hadn't made any more friends than Ethan Hayes and Gwendolyn Kingsley—and maybe Leslie Locke, though he wasn't exactly the friend type. And there was Harry, of course; though he was an old friend, so that didn't really count; and whether or not Harry was the friend type was also up for debate. Besides, Harry worked for _The Examiner, _which was a rival paper with _The Washington Daily. _They both shovelled out crap, of course, but they _were_ competing, and Jack was supposed to be loyal to the paper that he worked for.

He flipped open his briefcase and pulled out some old files. He was lazily perusing through an old roll of photos when he saw it.

He had taken a picture of the hobo.

It was dated early in October, so it took him only a second to place it as taken on the day of FDR's assassination attempt. When Jack had been snapping pictures of the decorations, he must have had accidentally taken a shot of the man.

_Maybe there are more._

He began looking through the rest of the roll, but found, to his disappointment, that was the only one. It wasn't a terribly good picture—it was blurry, and didn't get much of the man—but his face was clear, and that was all Jack wanted. It was a step to figuring out who the hobo was.

But who could he even ask? Maybe there was a homeless shelter in the city, where they would know him. But he didn't seem like the sort who would go to a homeless shelter. It just wouldn't really work on him.

He had to figure it out. He _had _to.

/

"Jack!" said Harry, reaching forward and pumping Jack's hand with overflowing enthusiasm. "How you doing?"

"Um. Hey." Jack grinned awkwardly at his friend, letting him shake his hand for a moment before pulling back. "I'm good. And you?"

"Good, good. What are you doing? Not in work?"

Jack stared down at his cigarette for a moment, and then looked around at his surroundings, wondering what Harry was getting at. "I'm taking a break," he said, as if it was self-evident.

"That's fun, that's fun. Hey, so, I was on my way to the Foreign Embassies; I'm checking out the area. The Russian ambassador is stopping over there tomorrow; I'm going to be there. 2:30. Come with! It'll be a blast!"

"Ah, ha ha, no thanks," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Too busy. _Way _too busy."

Harry's face fell momentarily, but he quickly regained his usual spunk, replying with, "All right. Good! Well, see you around."

"Who is that?" queried Gwen, nodding towards Harry's retreating figure.

Following her gaze, Jack glanced over at Harry and raised his eyebrows, as if seeing Harry there for the first time. "Oh. Him? Oh, that's Harry— Harry Nieuport. We used to be friends. Um. Kind of."

"Fell through?" Gwen asked, raising an eyebrow knowingly.

"Um… I don't know…" He shrugged. "I guess it was sometime after my parents died. He was their best friend's son, and… I don't know." His hand formed a cup by his mouth as he flicked on his lighter and lifted it to the cigarette. "It just stopped working out. Besides," he added hastily, his tone suddenly dismissive, "he's an idiot anyway. I mean…" He rolled his eyes for emphasis.

Gwen and Jack had, for whatever reason, taken to spending their breaks chatting outside. At first Jack had been a little uneasy with this, but quickly decided that they were doing it because they were friends and had a lot in common, not because he had sprouted feelings for her, or vice versa. No, heaven forbid. He knew he needed a wife, but she wasn't the sort who would do nothing but cook and darn his socks, and that was the sort of woman he probably needed.

"Yeah, yeah; I hear you." Gwen slouched against the wall, took a long drag of her cigarette, and abruptly changed the subject. "So, what's up with your reporting? Anything new?"

"Uh… well, not really." Jack's hand went into his pocket, about to bring out the picture of the stranger; he paused and toyed with the idea that it was safer, perhaps, not to let her know. _But what could it hurt? _Mentally rolling his eyes at himself, he reached in and pulled out the picture. "You know who this guy is? The man with the beard?"

She frowned, looking over the picture. "Some homeless guy? I don't know. You tell me," she added, shoving the picture back towards him.

"Yeah, that's what I thought you would say." Jack sighed noisily, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Guess I'll just have to ask around."

Her frown deepened, and she cocked her head a little. "Why? Who is he?"

"I said I don't know. That's why I—"

"I mean, why is he important to you?"

"He… reminds me of somebody," he said, lamely.

"Oh. Right. Well, I'd try talking to Max Bird if I were you." Slumping even further against the wall, she gestured towards the door of _The Washington Daily_ with her cigarette. "He's been in D.C. way longer than I have. Knows more people."

"Wasn't he born here?"

"No… he's from… er… Belgium?" She screwed up her face, trying to jog her memory. "I think he might be from England, but I'm pretty sure he lived in Belgium at one point. Not sure, though. Think he moved here in… what? '34? Way before I came, anyway."

"I didn't know he was Belgian," said Jack, frowning.

"Well. I dunno, mate. We don't exactly have a lot of tête-à-tête's."

Jack paused for a moment, appreciating the absurdity of the thought, and then snickered. "No, I can't really picture that."

She grinned at him, but then her face fell; she straightened up off the wall, listlessly tossing her cigarette to the ground. "Hey, mate, it's been grand, but I gotta go back to work."

"Okay, I'll come in with you," he said, opening the door for her.

She grinned cheekily and stepped through. "You gentleman," she said, and somehow managed to make it sound like an insult.

They made their way to the newsroom, where they said their goodbyes and Gwen went back into Argyros's office. Jack sat at his desk in the bullpen for a while, wondering how on earth he was supposed to get an audience with Max Bird. Did he just invite the man out to lunch or something? That was a downright ridiculous idea, if he'd ever had one. Bird was a busy man. Not to mention he was a bad-tempered old git. Even though he often wore a smile, it was a very fake smile that never reached his eyes. If he wasn't sulking in his office, or pacing the newsroom and scowling/smiling at everybody, he was shouting at some subordinate for something that wasn't even that big of a deal. Bird made Mr Argyros seem like Santa Claus.

But he _really _wanted to know who the hobo was.

_What's the best way to get an audience with Bird?_

_Duh, _his brain told him. _Suggest a new story._

About what, though?

Homeless people?

He mulled over the idea for a long time, tapping his pen against his lips as he rested his chin on the top of his desk. Yes; yes, that might work. He stood, patted the loose papers on his desk into one neat stack, and made his way towards Bird's office.

/

"A story about _homeless people? _That's a load of—"

"I think it would work, sir…"

"You _do_? Oh, was _that_ why you're suggesting it?"

Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Bird's pathetic sarcasm. "It could be a big hit. Nobody seems to really cover that side of society—"

"We are in a war. There are more important things to be covering right now."

"Well, with all due respect, the new dog park thirty miles away from here did just get a whole page of coverage. I think that the people in our city who are on speaking terms with extreme poverty—"

"We just got out of a depression, Mayport!"

"Davenport," Jack corrected, and then froze. _Smooth move, Jack._

Fortunately, Bird hadn't seemed to hear. "Half the people in this country are on 'speaking term' with extreme poverty."

"Yes sir."

"Yes sir," he said, mockingly. "And what got that idea into your head, anyway?"

Here it was: Jack's time to introduce the picture. He took a deep breath. "I was talking to his hobo…"

"Were you, now?" Bird squinted at Jack, and then fake smile broke out unexpectedly. It was decidedly unnerving. "Interviewing hobos?"

Taken aback, Jack stammered, "Um… yes. They see sides of society that a lot of people are blind to."

Silence.

"Anyway…" He reached in and pulled out the picture. He had blown it up, so that the man's face was as clear as day. "It's funny; I thought this man actually looked familiar. D'you think he's been in the news before? I thought—"

"_Him," _Bird breathed.

His carefully planned speech interrupted, Jack's voice broke off abruptly as he glanced up at Bird. He regarded his employer with a wary frown. The man's face was pure white, his hands trembling; his usually narrow eyes were wide with— what? Panic? Horror? Jack couldn't decide. From what he could tell, Bird could have been disgusted, angry, or just plain frightened.

The man's voice was a hiss. "He's still alive."

"Who?"

"I—I thought… I thought he…"

"You're scared of him?" Almost immediately after he asked, Jack's heart stopped. He knew the term 'facepalm', but it wasn't until now that he fully understood its meaning.

"No!" Bird blurted out, but he didn't wheel on Jack, like Jack had expected him to. He was just staring at the photo, like it was a viper about to strike. "No! Why would I be scared? I'm not scared. He's just an old… old… friend," he finished lamely.

"I see," said Jack doubtfully.

Bird watched the photo for a moment longer before suddenly snapping back to reality. Standing, he slapped his palms together the table and began bodily shooing Jack out of the room. "I don't like your idea for a story. No. I don't like it. Don't investigate that man. I said don't. No. Investigating. Okay? Okay. Goodbye, Ravenport."

"Davenp—"

The door slammed in his face.

_Time to do some investigating, _Jack thought.

/

The Library of Congress was the biggest, most beautiful library Jack had ever seen. A grand staircase curved its way to the second floor, flanked by polished marble gods and goddesses. Ahead of him, behind two partially opened French doors, he could dimly make out a room with graceful furnishings, huge portraits and tapestries adorning the walls, not to mention row upon row of books.

The front doors were also guarded by one of the biggest bouncers Jack had ever seen.

Digging around in his briefcase, he finally located Ethan's identity card. _Okay, _he thought. _Act natural. _Putting his thumb over the words "Ethan A. Hayes", he trotted towards the bouncer, raising the card so the man could see. It wasn't a caution he needed to take; if questioned, he could always pretend to be Ethan. But should the same bouncer be there when the real Ethan tried to enter…

"Go right in," said the guard.

A sigh of relief threatened to escape Jack's lips, but he swallowed it back just in time. Shoving the identity card back in his pocket before the bouncer could ask to check it, he slipped through the French doors and entered into the library.

_Where to begin looking?_

Newspapers?

He thought back to his conversation with Gwendolyn. Belgian newspapers, maybe? British newspapers? No; probably Belgian. Belgian newspapers from 1934? He doubted there would be too many of those, but he was willing to be surprised.

Jack found his way up without too much trouble; a very attractive librarian helped him locate Belgian newspapers from '34, and she didn't ask any questions, so Jack counted it a double win. When she left, he stood there for a few minutes, scratching his chin, looking over the rows of newspapers.

_Now… 'B' for 'Bird'…_

It was only a few minutes before he found something about a man named Max Bird. There was a very nice picture of a model ship, and he saw the word unicorn, but the article was in French, so he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. He spent an entire hour searching for a similar story in English until he finally located one—a translated version of the first article, no less. Sitting with his back to the bookshelf, Jack snapped open the paper and began to read.

_This morning, Max Bird, one of the notorious Bird brothers, was apprehended early this morning at the Amsterdam Train Station, in an attempt to leave the country. Bird, the former owner of Marlinspike Hall, was re-arrested by Interpol_ _…_

Very interesting, he thought. Very, _very _interesting. Max Bird certainly had some explaining to do.

He finished the article; it didn't give him much more information. But the enormity of the article didn't hit him until he saw who it was written by.

_Tintin._

"No way!" squeaked Jack, his voice suddenly high-picked and excited. He blushed and looked around, making sure nobody was close enough to have heard that. He didn't see anybody, so he coughed to clear his throat, and replaced the article.

Diving back into the folders of articles, Jack dug through and whipped out every one that had the words 'Bird' and 'Tintin.' Once he had finished his search, he turned to the first one, which turned out to be very unhelpful— something about a parrot and a murder and the Belgian Museum of Ethnography; the second article was just as worthless, some junk about emeralds and a magpie. But the third article—oh, the third article! As it turned out, not only was Jack's employer a crook, but a murderer, and Jack knew it was the same Max Bird because there was a picture. Seven or eight years younger, maybe, but he had the same suspicious eyes, the heavy face, the thin black hair. A former criminal was now running half of _The Washington Daily! _This was a story better than the FDR murder attempt! And the best part was, Tintin was involved. Not only had the Bird brothers tried to rob Tintin—stupid twits—but they'd tried to murder him, too. Obviously they hadn't known who they were dealing with.

Jack flipped through the rest of the articles, but he didn't find too much new information. He did find, however, that Max had escaped the country after trying to wreck Tintin and Captain Haddock's voyage, and he hadn't been heard from since. Until now, of course. Why the man hadn't picked a pseudonym was beyond Jack. And how on earth did he get into newspapers? It didn't make sense. But it would make sense, when he got to question Bird. And when the man was at the interrogation table, Jack could also ask him about that photo—

_Wait a second._

Jack shook his head. No; it was impossible.

"There is no way…" he muttered to himself, but his voice trailed off. It was impossible. Wasn't it?

As he made his way out of the library, Jack was in too big of a hurry to notice the figure, standing behind the bookshelf. Watching him.

/

Jack stood at the edge of the harbour. He was only a couple metres away from the bench, and he walked up to it slowly, his boots crunching on the leaves beneath him.

The hobo was there. Sitting. Watching the smoke curl out from his cigarette. Watching the waves pounding at the stone wall before him. After a moment, he said, so quietly that Jack could barely hear him, "Hello, Jack Davenport."

Jack didn't say anything for a long time. He stared at the hobo. At his rugged face; the dirty brown hair that fell down to his shoulders; the beard covering half of his face. And then at the clear grey eyes. And suddenly all doubt was banished.

"You're Tintin," Jack said quietly.

There was a long, tangible silence.

The man took a deep, shivering breath. "I was Tintin."

Jack's eyes searched Tintin's face for any trace of emotion, but the reporter's features were carefully guarded, completely blank. He didn't move; he continued just staring out to sea.

"What happened?" Jack finally asked.

Silence.

"Tintin, everybody thinks you're dead. What are you _doing?"_

Still silence.

"Right." Jack put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "So. You're Tintin. You're the world famous reporter. And you're here. What are you doing? Are you in disguise? Are you on somebody's trail? Where's Snowy? Where's the Captain? Tintin, why haven't we _heard _from you?"

He found that he was breathing hard. His hands were clenched into fists, and his heart was running wild.

A brief look of pain flickered over Tintin's eyes. He frowned, his head dipping forward and resting in his hand. "I don't know."

"What? You don't _know_?" Jack watched as Tintin slowly stood up, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and began to walk. Jack didn't move, just stood there. "How on earth can you not _know_? You've been missing for five years."

He didn't even look at Jack. He pause, half turning, so that Jack could just see Tintin's profile. "I don't want to talk about it." And then he kept on walking.

"Tintin! Wait! Don't leave. Don't you dare leave!"

But Tintin didn't stop, and Jack he didn't give chase. He watched as Tintin walked away, past the sidewalk, past the trees, and into the steadily growing city lights.

* * *

**Author's Note: **See? I said this was a Tintin story. :)

I just realised: there are a lot of birds in Tintin, aren't there?


	6. Shell Shock

**Chapter Five**

"You saw _who?" _Gwen gasped, wheeling around to face Jack. Her cigarette dangled from in between her lips and, after a moment, fell to the ground unnoticed.

"I told you. That guy I showed you in the picture yesterday? That's _Tintin. _He's still alive. Everybody thought he was dead, or something, but he's alive, he's right here in D.C."

Swing music blared from the club behind them, some Count Basie song that everybody in the club was dancing and singing along to. From the open door, Jack could see Ethan and one of his mates were staggering back and forth, firmly locked in an attempt at tango—the two of them long since stoned—and were in absolute stitches It was just one of those nights: it seemed like everyone under 30 was high. Jack was fairly sure that he and Gwen were the only people in a 100 yard radius who weren't completely tight. Jack wasn't tight because he thought that getting drunk was a dumb thing to do and tried to stay away from anything stronger than beer or wine spritzers. Gwen wasn't tight because—well, Jack wasn't quite sure, really; he wasn't sure how anybody could down four tequilas, a bottle of Loch Lomond, and that monster called an Irish Car Bomb and be anything but unconscious. But as far as he could see, she was nothing more than a bit tipsy. Well. Some people.

Gwen was shaking her head, her eyes glazed as her brain struggled to process the new information. "He's alive? Tintin? No," she said weakly. "No… no way. He can't be. But— well— where is he? What's he doing? Why doesn't he show himself? Is he just hiding? That would be inexuca… no, wait… inexa… ina…"

"Inexcusable?"

"That's it. Inexcusable."

"I don't know, Gwen. I just don't know." Jack shook his head, his brow furrowing with anger and frustration. "Something's wrong. I don't know what. I feel like I can't even think clearly anymore."

"Well, you haven't slept since yesterday morning," she pointed out, her voice slurring slightly.

She had a point. Early yesterday morning, Ethan had called Jack and told him that they were hitting the _Crescent Lounge_, a bar that was swiftly becoming one of the most popular clubs in all of D.C. Ethan had told Jack to take a long nap before they left, at 11 pm, and Jack had been too busy to bother following his advice. It was now 6 am, Saturday morning, and he hadn't slept for 23 hours. The party back in the club was still going strong, and while Jack had truly enjoyed himself, he had the slight sinking sensation that they weren't planning on breaking it up anytime soon. Thank heaven he had an appointment at 7. He would be glad to quit this scene.

Gwen put her hand to her lips, expecting to find her cigarette. She scowled when she realised it had fallen, and reached for another from her purse. It took her more than one attempt to locate her cigarette case. "So, you gonna do a story on it, huh?"

"I dunno. That just seems kinda… wrong. Here: let me get that for you." Noticing she was having trouble with her lighter, he flicked on his for her, holding it up to her cigarette.

"Thanks, mate. Yeah, I don't know. Maybe it is." She shrugged, and blew out a long stream of smoke. The smell was immediately drowned in the hazy fug of cigar smoke drifting from the club behind them. "But hiding from the world for five years is kind of wrong."

"Guess so. Not like it matters; I mean, I already have a story to cover. The Russian ambassador; he's coming over this morning. Heh, I'm stealing Harry's beat." He winked cheekily.

"No." She looked genuinely surprised. "Really?"

"Cross my heart."

"You little swine!" she giggled, lazily flopping her hand towards him, eyes crossed slightly.

"Hey! Jack! Gwendolyn! Come back inside, lovebirds! You just missed the funniest thing _ever!"_

They turned, looking at the door for a moment, and then Gwen sighed exaggeratedly and rolled her eyes. "Ugh, that's Ethan. Guess we'd better go in there."

Jack glanced at his watch. The ambassador was arriving in thirty minutes. "Drat. Hey, sorry, but I actually have to quit this scene."

Her face fell. "Aww, honest?"

"Honest. Tell Ethan thanks for the invite and that I hate him."

She saluted him, grinning widely. "Will do."

Swinging his camera into a more comfortable position over his shoulder, Jack took a backwards step away from Gwen, towards the direction of the Embassies. "Oh, one more thing," he added. "Don't tell anybody else about what I found out. About Tintin, you know."

"Why not?"

He paused, unsure of what to tell her. He didn't exactly have a good reason. It was just that… part of him was saying that it would just be wrong. "I don't know, just…" He wet his lips and tried again. "Just don't." It occurred to him that perhaps he didn't want her to tell others, because then he might have to explain about how he had learned that the hobo was Tintin, and he had learned through that because of Max Bird. And that story wasn't one he was so ready to divulge. Truth be told, he was a little frightened of the thought. The man had escaped from police custody more than once, and tried to kill at least three people. Jack didn't want Bird on his tail. He wanted to live, thank you very much.

Gwendolyn looked uncertain, but said, "All… all right. If you say so."

"Thanks, Gwen. See you later."

"Yeah. See you."

With that, he raised a hand in goodbye, nodded to her, turned on his heel and began jogging down the street. There was a swing in his step, and he hummed quietly. He was dead-tired, but it had been a good night. He was glad he had friends. He loved meeting new people. It was just a visceral part of him.

_And I met Tintin, _he thought.

He had to admit: he still felt a little shell-shocked. He had just met Tintin. _Tintin. _He couldn't believe it. His brain stubbornly refused to fully accept it.

_Although_, his more logical side added, _that could be because he wasn't anything like what I would have expected._

Jack had had a very clear picture of the Belgian reporter in his mind; it was an image nurtured by years spent pouring over newspapers and imagining running off on adventures with him and his dog Snowy. He had thought he'd had Tintin down, down to the last freckle. Instead, he met a worn out, jaded hobo, who had fallen victim to exhaustion and cynicism, and if not for Bird's story, and Tintin's own confession, somebody that Jack would have never suspected of once being a legendary hero.

_Except for his eyes,_ he thought.

But it just wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Tintin could be alive and out there, and hiding. That wasn't right: it was downright wrong, and anybody who said otherwise was an idiot. How many heads of state had been assassinated? How many guns had been smuggled? How many shipments of heroin had gone by unnoticed? You couldn't become a hero and just walk away. It wasn't just rude: it was wrong. When Jack was little, he had been more interested in the weekly comics that involved Tintin then the more accurate new stories about him, but he was fairly sure that a good many organisations had come to depend on him—Interpol and the Belgian Police Force, to name a few. He imagined that they had fallen to pieces after Tintin disappeared. And of course Kûrvi-Tasch and General Tapioca had risen to insane power; if they joined Hitler, they would become real threats to the Allies. Yet another thing due to Tintin's absence. If Tintin wanted peace—which would make sense, considering how much he'd been through—why didn't he just retire, instead of all but faking his death? That might've helped keep San Theodoros and Borduria in check.

Jack should have said something. He should have told Tintin that he was living in a dream world and was pathetic and needed to wake up.

Shaking his head, he hailed a taxi, told the driver where to go, and forced himself to relax and forget about Tintin for the rest of the ride. Tintin had been his hero. He didn't want to think about Tintin like this.

The taxi dropped him out a block or so away from the Russian Embassy, and he stepped outside, adjusting his camera strap as he walked towards massive building, snapping a couple distant shots. He knew Harry would be in the crowd somewhere; the thought was distracting, but he would just have to stay on his toes. Reporters had to be good at that. In case they got into danger…

_Argyros was right. Tintin really did glamorise reporting for me._

Which was why he was mad at Tintin. The man had no right to just turn his back on the world he'd made dependant on him. It was like adopting some kid and then leaving it, making it fend for itself.

_We need a hero._

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jack sighed heavily. From the distance, he could hear the wail of police sirens. The ambassador was probably arriving. Well, let him arrive. Jack had stopped caring. It would be a good story, but Jack could just make it on his own time, who cared anyway, Harry would share with him what had happ—

Jack's entire vision went white.

He was aware of nothing except for two things: sound and heat. They roared through his entire being, crashing down on him with the force of a tidal wave, sweeping away all other thoughts or feelings or emotions. Only sound and heat.

_What just happened. What just happened._

It was a long time before he became aware of where he was, or what was going on. He felt pain throbbing through the back of his head, inside his brain. His eyes drifted open just in time to see a plane above him. A plane, with the swastika painted on its belly and wings.

That was terrifying. He knew it was. But his mind refused to feel frightened. It refused to feel any emotions at all.

His brain slowly picked up more details; the screaming crowd, the flames licking the street around him, the clouds of smoke and ash rising into the sky.

Jack's equilibrium was completely gone. He gripped the side of a car, trying to stand upright, and staggered forward, his ears ringing, his vision swaying. _What am I doing? What am I trying to do? _But his mind wouldn't let him think clearly. He couldn't tell what was going on, what he was trying to accomplish, he was just stumbling towards the wreckage of the Embassy, leaning on trees, cars, gates, anything for support. The heat grew stronger with each step, the screams louder, each sound wreaking further pain on his raw, screaming mind.

But he pushed himself forward. He had to help. Had to help. Had to—

_Where's Harry?_

"Harry!" he screamed. His lungs were filled with ash, and his voice was hoarse. He coughed and tried again. "Harry Nieuport! Where are you? _Harry!_"

A couple yards away from the flames, Jack caught a glimpse of a man with red hair and a plaid scarf, stumbling away, his face in his hands, coughing. His breath caught in his throat.

"Harry!" Jack shouted. His lungs felt raw, and he could barely force out the words. He began running towards the man, tripping over rubble, trying to ignore the heat on his body, the screams all around him. He grabbed Harry's shoulder, forcing the boy to turn around to look at him. "Harry! Are you okay?"

Harry stared at him with deadpan eyes. It took Jack a moment to realise why; to see the blood splattered over the front of his jacket.

"My hand…" Harry said weakly, staring down at his right hand. The entire arm was bloodied; one of the fingers was missing, the other half blown off.

Jack fought the urge to be sick. _Don't lose it. Not now. _"It's all right, Harry," he said, forcing his voice to be steady. "You're going to be okay. Harry. Harry, you need to look for survivors. I'm going to call for help. I'll be right back. Okay? I'll be right back."

Only a few yards away was a phone booth, and Jack stumbled towards it, praying it was operational. He hung on the door handle for a moment, trying to steady his breathing, and then entered the booth.

The phone worked. He wasn't sure who he had wanted to call—the ambulances were already on their way—but he heard his voice asking the operator for the police station—the one on the harbour. He leaned back against the phone booth wall and waited.

It was years before he finally heard a voice on the other end.

"Hello?" said a sleepy-sounding policeman. "This is—"

"There's no time to explain. There's a man who should be sitting by the harbour, he's a hobo, he has long hair, red beard, blue coat. You should be able to see him if you look out of the windows from the east side of your station. Can you see him? Can you—"

"A hobo?" There was a pause, and he could hear blinds being pulled open. "Blue coat… long… um, yes, I… think I see him."

He almost dropped the phone in his relief. "Thank you, God," he gasped. He reached up and wiped away the sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt and ash on his face. "Please… please tell him to come to… to…" Taking a deep breath, Jack closed his eyes and struggled to remember. "The Russian Embassy. Immediately. Tell him it's extremely urgent. Make sure he knows it's extremely—"

"All right, sir. I'll send someone over to inform him."

He heard the phone drop. The sound was followed by an excruciatingly long silence. Every second was almost tangible, sending tangible pain through Jack's gut. He glanced out at Harry. He couldn't see the boy; he must've gone inside the Embassy to look for survivors. When the man's voice came back up, Jack jumped, feeling his heartbeat come even faster.

"Did you tell him?"

"I'm sorry, sir, he said he didn't want to 'be a part of it.'"

"What?"

"His own words, sir. He said he doesn't want—"

From somewhere, far away, came the whir of a plane motor, coming closer. "No no no, you don't understand! He needs to come, be here, here!" he shouted shakily, feeling panic running rampant through his voice, through his shaking fingers. "Tell him there was a bombing! Tell him—"

"A bombi— look, who is this? I'm going to have to—"

Jack stared into the receiver, feeling his hands trembling with rage—or fear; it could have been either. He was a heartbeat away from losing control. From just letting it all out and screaming. But before his mouth had even opened, there was a rattling shake, and then a second boom_. _He staggered backward, his back hitting the walls of the telephone booth, fighting for balance as the world rocked to the side and a cloud of white and yellow mushroomed into the October air.

_Harry._

That was the only thought in his mind.

His body seemed to freeze. The phone dropped from his hand, dangling by its cord. He stood—in slow motion, it seemed; almost like a dream—and began running, his legs thudding forward mechanically, weaving through the shell-shocked bystanders that were beginning to gather, dodging firemen and shouting policemen, stumbling through the flickering ruins of homes, over the rubble, past the charred skeletons of burning trees.

The scene before him was straight out of hell. He could see people now, mere shapes, running in frantic, agonised circles, fire streaming and crackling from their blackening bodies. Houses crumbled before his eyes, cracking like egg shells and smashing the people beneath them like eggs. Smoke was everywhere, smothering his lungs, clouding his vision. The heat rose, hotter and whiter, stronger with each staggering step he took towards it Jack's brain screamed at him to help, to do something. But what? From all directions came moans for help, the unremitting screams of people in shock, but there was no time: no time to do anything about any of them.

He couldn't see Harry anywhere, and after a moment Jack paused for breath, his hands on his knees, taking gluttonous gulps of air.

"Jack…"

Jack's heart stopped.

"Harry!" he screamed hoarsely, staggering towards the direction of the sound. He had that feeling again: his brain icing over; everything happening too slowly. He crossed the threshold, and after a moment—it could have been half a minute, or a mere second— his shoe snagged on the splintered wreck of a crystal chandelier, and he snapped back to reality as his whole body went sprawling forward and landed in the shreds of what had probably once been a priceless oil painting.

The feeble moaning of his name came again, from only a few feet away. It was Harry. Jack was sure of it. Wincing with pain, he picked himself up, getting to his hands and knees and crawling forward, ignoring the blood on his palms. It had come from near that house—by that fallen marble pillar—

In front of that pillar, he saw a leg.

Feeling his heart thudding, every beat sick and uneven, Jack began frantically pushing aside rubble, grunting with the exertion. His efforts revealed another leg, and then a waist—

And then he saw that the waist was crushed, the torn, crumpled skin sloping inward to meet the beam, like rotting fruit halved by too much pressure in the middle.

"J—Jack…"

"Harry! Harry, are you alright?" His breath caught in his throat. If the words hadn't been rushing unbidden from his mouth, he wouldn't have been able to speak.

Harry smiled weakly. For some reason, the only thing Jack's brain could compute was how pale Harry's face was, contrasted with the blood drenching the upper half of his body. "Don't f…feel…anything…" His breath hitched, and he tried to cough, but just choked instead. The sound gurgled wetly.

"Harry. Harry, listen to me, Harry, you're going to be alright," he panted, clambering over the beam and landing on the other side with a thud. He could see Harry's body more clearly now; past the torn skin, he could see the dull glisten of organ—

His lips started to tremble. "C—can't move," he gasped, his breath coming erratic and shallow. "Can't…"

"Please God. Oh God, please God, no, no…" Jack moaned, grabbing Harry's shoulders. He tried to ignore the feeling of the upper half of the boy's body separating from the lower as Jack shook him. "No!"

Harry's eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling, his lips slightly parted, blood trickling from between them.

"S—someone call an ambulance!" His voice choked and broke off; he wet his lips and tried again. "Somebody, help! Please!"

Kneeling in the ruin of the street, the flaming wreckage of homes surrounding, hearing the distant wail of sirens, far off, coming too late, Jack clenched Harry's hand, dropped his head onto the younger boy's chest, and sobbed.

* * *

**Author's Note: **And so the plot thickens... bwahahaha!

**Review?** Because you love me? *hopeful smile*


	7. Why Are You Helping Me?

**Chapter Six**

"Trust in our national security has been shattered completely…"

Tipping back his head, Jack gulped down another mouthful of ale, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and slammed the pint back down on the countertop. He half listened to the radio, droning on in the background, talking about the psychological effects the attack was having on America.

It was 10 o'clock pm, and the bar was mostly empty. A few stragglers lingered at the back, finishing up their drinks, but the inside of the bar was almost as lonely and hollow as the world outside of it. Nobody was speaking. They were just sitting there, listening to the radio, drinking to try to kill their fear and forget about what just happened.

_Why does it have to be like this?_

It wasn't as if Jack was upset because he had been such wonderful friends with Harry. That wasn't it at all. It was the fact that Harry had died regardless of their friendship, and that he had died so close to Jack. In his arms, practically.

He could still see their faces. They had been screaming for help. But he had been helpless. Completely helpless. Unable to help anything or anyone. There was nothing that he could have done.

Jack had been listening to the drunken singing long before he was actually paying attention to it. Now, it caught his attention. Iit drifted near and nearer, the sound of slurred and hideously off-key music, until the singer was right outside the pub door. "For tonight we'll merry merry be, we'll merry merry be…"

Jack knew who it was out there, instinctively. He got to his feet, shoved the bar stool back towards the counter, and walked towards the door, feeling each step drag. He caught a glimpse of shaggy brown hair, falling over a tattered blue overcoat, and knew for sure.

"Hey!" he shouted, taking a step outside the door. "Hey, stop!"

Tintin turned to face him for just a second. He looked at him with bleary eyes—a look of brief recognition, perhaps—and then he dropped his gaze and continued stumbling onward.

"Right," Jack said grimly, grabbing Tintin's shoulders and slamming him backwards against the wall. Tintin flinched, but didn't try to resist. "You're going to stop this."

Tintin made a futile effort to get away, but Jack pressed his hands harder into his shoulders and pinned him even closer to the wall.

"You're going to stop this, now."

He tried to meet Tintin's gaze, but even with the older man drunk, he still found it hard to look angrily into his eyes. He lowered his gaze, and that was when noticed the thing in Tintin's hand. A bottle of Loch Lomond. Suddenly angry, he wrenched it from his hand and threw it onto the cobblestones, sending whisky and glass flying. "First of all," Jack stated, through gritted teeth, "you're going to stop drinking."

Tintin stared at him, clearly unfazed. "Laissez… m—moi… tranquille…"1 He swayed forward, almost falling on top of Jack, and fell flat to the ground.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Jack muttered. "This isn't happening. All right: you're coming with me." He didn't wait for a reply; he reached forward, grabbed Tintin's overcoat and heaved the reporter upward with strength he didn't know he had. Sighing, he raised his hand to call a taxi.

/

Jack was surprised to see that it was pouring rain and overcast when he walked into the street. People walked down the city blocks, shoulders hunched and shrouded in black umbrellas. It was at least eleven o'clock at night, and it was so wet and foggy that he could barely see the dim glow of the streetlamps. How long had he been at the bar?

Getting Tintin into the taxi proved hard, especially with the rain soaking Jack's clothes and face. Getting him through the front door was even harder. But taking off the man's coat and dragging him to the bathroom? That wasn't just hard. That was downright awkward.

Tintin had been muttering in French for the past ten minutes, but now he was finally unconscious. At first, it had been a relief; now, it was a pain. Jack really didn't want Tintin on his couch; the man was filthy. Jack had planned on making him take a bath, but if he was unconscious, that wasn't going to happen. He toyed with the idea of just stripping the man and washing him himself, but he didn't want Tintin to wake up in the middle of that. Jack would never be able to look at him again.

"Okay," he said, dusting off his hands. Unsure what to do, he leaned against the bathroom wall, looking over the room. "Okay," he said again.

Well, he could just leave Tintin there. Hopefully he would wake up sooner or later and do something about himself.

Deciding that was the best plan, Jack filled up the bathtub with scalding hot water, laid out shampoo, a razor, and a pair of pyjamas, and exited the bathroom.

/

Tintin stared at his reflection.

He was in a clean white bathroom that smelled like shampoo and aftershave. There was a small window blowing cool, albeit wet, night air into the humid room, curtains billowing slightly. Behind him was the tub, filled to the brim with lukewarm water, dirt, and frothy bubbles. After emerging, dripping, from the tub, he'd wrapped a soft blue towel around his waist and wondered exactly where he was and why. He had vague recollections of getting drunk at a pub (that was nothing new, of course) and being thrust into a car (that was nothing new either, but it certainly hadn't happened for a while) and driven off to—well, here. Tintin was fairly sure that Jack Davenport, who may or may not have been a friend, had something to do with it, but he had no absolutely idea whether he was a guest or prisoner.

He sighed and shook his head, surveying the mirror before him. In front of him was a stranger. Or maybe not a stranger exactly; but somebody he hadn't seen for a while. The man before him had clean ginger hair, a round, pale face, a faint scattering of freckles, and clear grey eyes. If he squinted a bit, he could almost imagine that he was still seventeen. The old Tintin, the one that everybody knew and loved. The Tintin that the comics and newspaper stories were about.

But there were differences. Obvious ones, he noted, running a calloused hand over his freshly washed face. Those sunken cheeks. They hadn't been there before. And where had those lines on his forehead come from?

Tintin found this hard to take in. It had only been… what… two years ago that he had left Belgium? He had only been twenty then. He was twenty two now, but he didn't look it. No, he looked old; old and haggard.

And then of course, there were other differences—psychological and emotional differences; less obvious ones, but far more significant.

It didn't take long for him to realise that he didn't care. It didn't really matter who he was; he was content to stay nameless and faceless in the streets. Anybody who said differently was a fool—Monsieur Davenport included.

Shaking his head again, he looked over the clothes laid out on the side of the bath for him. Jack Davenport's clothes. Part of him told him to put back on his pants—his overcoat and shirt were gone—and escape through that window. But the same part of him that told him to take the bath and not escape, now told him to get dressed in the pyjamas and forget about trying to run away. He obeyed it. He didn't have enough willpower left to resist.

The feeling of clean, soft clothes against his skin was wonderful, but felt strangely alien. How long had it been since he wore pyjamas? Five years, at least. Ever since he had been dragged through the doors of—

_No. _

_Don't think about that. Just forget it. It was years ago. Forget. _

He found that his heart was pounding. Who was he kidding? There was no way he could forget then— the cold walls, the scornful voices, the pain, the thudding guilt—

Fingers gripping the marble vanity, he braced his arms and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, letting his head fall between his shoulders.

_Just… just forget._

/

Jack stared at the pancake on the floor.

"Drat you," he finally said, reaching down and scooping it up with the spatula. He flipped it into the litterbin and stood there, hands on his hips, surveying his kitchen. Why had he thought he was capable of flipping a pancake in mid-air? Ugh, he really needed a wife.

"Not married?" came a voice from right behind Jack. He jumped and turned around.

"Uh— not exactly," replied Jack hurriedly, flustered by the sudden intrusion. He pulled down the back of his shirt self-consciously.

Tintin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Not… exactly?" he queried drily.

"No," admitted Jack, sounding defeated. Then he looked up to meet Tintin's gaze, and was immediately struck with the feeling of seeing a ghost. He dropped the spatula and stood there, staring blankly for a few seconds. "You're Tintin," he said weakly. Then he realising how strange this sounded, he blurted out, "I mean, I mean, you _look _like— you're actually—I mean…" He gave up fumbling for the right words and bent down to pick up the spatula, trying to hide the colour rushing to his cheeks.

"Why are you doing this?"

Jack frowned, pausing as he straightened up. "Doing what?"

"Why am I here? Why are you helping me?"

"When did you start drinking?" he asked suddenly, turning to face Tintin.

A brief look of pain flickered over Tintin's otherwise impassive features, but he held Jack's gaze steadily. "Two years ago."

"Why?"

"Why does anybody drink?"

Jack couldn't think of anything to say. He shrugged and pulled out a cigarette for himself; he handed one to Tintin. "Here."

"Merci beaucoup."2

They lit up and stood there for a while, not saying anything.

Jack could tell a lot of things from Tintin's face right now. For one, he could tell that Tintin had been through a lot over the past four or five years, however long he'd been gone. And he could also tell Tintin a lot of things. He could tell him about how he had been his hero for over half his life. He could tell him about how it was his fault that Harry Nieuport was dead. He could tell him about how much he wanted to learn from him, as one reporter to another. He could tell him about how angry he was that Tintin was hiding from the world. But, in the end, he didn't say anything. It was almost a minute before he smelled smoke that didn't smell much like tobacco, and suddenly remembered that there were pancakes on the griddle.

Throwing his cigarette onto the tile floor, he dove for the spatula in a frantic attempt to save the pancakes, and then remembered that he had put said spatula in the sink, and it was now submerged in almost a foot of soapy, scalding water. He reached in anyway, but yelped and pull out his hand, swearing and grunting with pain.

He turned around, to see Tintin calmly lifting up the griddle, flipping it over, and neatly catching the falling pancakes on a dinner plate.

_Why didn't I think of that?_

"Very, um, quick thinking."

"Actually," he said, sliding half the pancakes onto a separate plate, "it took me fifteen years to think of it."

"Oh." Jack blinked. "Really? Um, fifteen years?"

"Well, I thought of it one night when Nestor—our butler—was out, and the Captain said we—" But his voice broke off.

There was a long silence.

"Oh. Captain Haddock?"

Tintin nodded, calm as ever, but that look of pain was there again, far more obvious this time. He blinked and looked away.

"How is he?" Jack asked quietly. He only got a shrug for a reply. "You mean you haven't seen him? Even heard from him?"

"Not for five years."

"Not for fi— oh, wow." It seemed like an understatement, but for the life of him he couldn't think of anything else, so he said it again. "_Wow_. Where have you been?"

Tintin was silent.

"So… so you just… you just left Belgium?"

He shrugged.

"You've been letting the world fall to pieces, just so you can, what, hide? Almost a hundred people just died, Tintin. They just _died. _I tried calling you, but you didn't do a thing. A hundred people died._"_

He barely even looked up. "And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Nothing. Believe me, it's too late for that. But maybe, just maybe, if you had been out there, fighting for what's right, instead of getting drunk, you _might've_—"

"Stop it."

"And you don't care," Jack hissed, taking a threatening step forward. "You don't care at all. All you care about is wallowing in self-pity, isn't it? And you call yourself Tintin."

"No I don't. _You _call me Tintin. I stopped pretending to be Tintin five years ago."

"And look where it's gotten you!" Jack shouted, getting to his feet. "Do you feel any better about whatever happened? No! No, you don't! Maybe it's time you stopped running from your past, and faced it like a man!" Taking a step towards Tintin, he gripped the man by his shoulder, his brow furrowed with concentration. "Think about what you _were,_ Tintin. Think about what you _were._"

Tintin stood there, staring with the most penetrating gaze that Jack's had ever met. His lips moved, with unspoken words, and for a moment, Jack thought that he was going to speak; that he was going to agree. But then his head turned away, and yet another look of grief flickered transiently over his piercing grey eyes.

"I don't live in the past," he muttered, turning on his heel and striding out of the kitchen.

"Don't run away again."

"Where are my clothes?" he demanded, his voice echoing from the hallway.

"I took them to the cleaner's."

Silence.

"Why?"

"And if you'll fetch me your pants, I'll get those washed, too."

There was a long pause, and then Tintin slowly walked back into the kitchen, his eyes shooting daggers at Jack. "What do you want me to do, Davenport?"

Jack felt like he was wilting, but gripped the countertop and forced himself to look and stand calm. How must it have been for criminals to get that glare? When Tintin had a gun in his hand? "I want you to—"

"_Open up!"_

They froze.

Somebody was knocking on the door, fast and hard, faster and harder with each knock. "Open up, now!"

Jack heart began pounding, a fluttering, off-beat rhythm. _But there's nothing to be afraid of; Tintin can take them on._

"Here, I'll give you my gun—" Jack began, but just as he reached for the drawer, Tintin's hand grabbed his arm.

"I'm not shooting."

"You're not _what?"_

They could hear somebody kicking now; a heavy kick, bashing against the front door. "Open up!"

Jack muttered something and dashed towards the front door, his hands raised into fists.

The door fell over with a crash. The sound of gunfire accompanied the pounding of feet as a crowd of black shapes dashed into the house, knocking Jack over, running for Tintin, raising a cosh—

And then everything went black.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Ugh, it's been awful not writing from Tintin's POV for the last five chapters. I'm updating this story fairly quickly, for two reasons: one, it's not as cool as Silent Night, so I'm getting it over with. Two, it's more fun to write then Silent Night, so I'm being a bit more prolific.

Translations:

1 Leave me alone

2 Thank you very much


	8. The Interrogation

**Chapter Seven**

_"Tintin. Tintin, Can you hear me?"_

_There was a long silence, filled only with the sound of the Captain's heavy breathing._

_"Tintin, will you just talk to me!"_

_"There's no point," said the man standing next to him. His voice was gruff, unfamiliar, and Tintin hated the sound of it. But the sound of Haddock's voice was worse. Pleading. Begging. And Tintin couldn't do anything about it. _

_"Tintin, I know you're awake." His voice was strained, and strangely tight, as if he had just been crying._

_Of course he had, thought Tintin, his heart twisting and sinking. It sunk deep inside of him, as if by hiding, the pain could somehow go away._

_"Please. Please. Tintin, no. Tintin, don't do this. Don't do this to me. Will you… will you please just wake up?"_

"This one's awake…"

Moaning slightly, Tintin opened his eyes, squinting at the room around him. Everything seemed hazy and far too bright, and he could hear his blood pounding in his ears.

_Grade three concussion, _he thought absently. _Probably slight brain damage. Headaches for days. _A dagger of pain shot down the side of his skull, and he winced in pain. He made an attempt at touching his head, but his hands were bound.

_Not again. _

"How's the other one?"

"Coming around."

Tintin's eyes were just beginning to adjust to the lighting, and he could see his kidnappers now. At the most cursory glance, he found them the type he had expected; two shaven gorillas, more articulate with fists than words. But when he looked downward, he saw that they were in suits. And not just any suits. Although he knew little to nothing about fashion, he could tell these were incredibly expensive. Not to mention the cufflinks and pocket-watch chains, obviously made of solid gold.

_Either they're working for a very rich man, or I've gotten tangled up in something far bigger than myself._

But how? What had _he_ done? He quickly flipped through his mental inventory of enemies, but apart from Rastapopoulos or Dr Müller, perhaps, he couldn't think of anybody who was really rich, or even alive, apart from Müller; Tintin _thought _Müller was in Germany, though he wasn't positive.

He felt a sharp sting in his shoulder as somebody's boot connected with his back; he assumed it was from one of his captors—a third one, whom he hadn't noticed before. He craned his neck around and finally caught a glimpse of the man's face. His expression wasn't vicious; it wasn't even scornful, which came as a bit of a surprise.

"On your feet," the man said, and Tintin was further surprised to hear him speaking in a clipped British accent.

Unable to speak through the gag, Tintin shot him a cynical glare that he hoped conveyed the message: _Stand? Bound like this? I'd like to see you try._

"Enough, Pemberton." The voice came from behind Tintin, and he tried to turn his head around, but the gag kept his head locked in the same uncomfortable position. It was a gruff voice, harsh and demanding. "Unbind them."

There was no hesitation. Release of tension flooded through Tintin's arms as the ropes wrapped around his upper body were sliced through. He could hear rope being cut a couple metres away; he guessed it was Jack, but the moment he tried to turn around to see, a hand grabbed his shirt and pulled him upward. After a moment he realised, with a feeling of dismay, that he was still wearing Jack's pyjamas.

Struggling to find his balance as he was jerked to his feet, he looked around, surveying the room. _Where would the quickest escape be?_

"I'm sorry for this, Mr Davenport," said the voice from before, and Tintin flew around. There was a man standing there behind him. There was something commanding about his presence. He was old, perhaps 50 or so, and completely grey. But he held himself like a young man; not only that, but like a soldier. He grinned crookedly, looking at Tintin with clear grey eyes—a shade similar to the reporter's own. "I told them to bring you in unscathed, but they heard you planning to shoot them, and decided to be safe. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Tintin said coldly, glancing over at Jack, who looked like he wanted to say otherwise. As discreetly as he could, he shook his head.

"And I'm sorry you happened to be there, sir. A simple case of the wrong place, wrong time. But don't worry," the man said, cocking an eyebrow at Tintin's pyjamas as he put a cigarette between his lips. "You'll be able to go right back to bed the moment we're finished here."

Tintin forced himself to stay expressionless.

"Great," Jack said, dipping his head in a quick nod. "So what are we doing here?"

He gestured to two chairs, sitting by a desk a couple paces away. "Sit down, sit down," he said, settling himself into the chair on the other side of the desk. Once they had found their seats, he said, "Allow me to introduce myself: Assistant Chief Pat Granger. I'm currently working with FBI, but I'm soon to be chief of my own upcoming pet project: the CIA." He straightened his tie as he said it.

_I thought people only did that in movies, _Jack thought."The CIA?"

"Central Intelligence Agency," he explained, looking smug. His crooked grin extended even further.

He blinked. "Oh. So it's an education sort of thing?"

Granger's smile wavered a bit. "Intelligence." He said the word as if Jack didn't have much of it. "Espionage. Making sure other nations aren't trying to harm us. Intelligence gathering, processing, analysing."

"Excuse me, sir," said one of them men from before, reaching over Jack and handing an envelope to Granger. "This just in."

Jack frowned when he heard his voice; he was certain he knew it from somewhere.

"Thank you, Inspector." He glanced over the paper, muttered something about bureaucrats, and then shoved the paper in a drawer and leaned towards Tintin and Jack, calloused fingers steepled. "Now, as I'm sure you're both aware, there was a Nazi attack on the Russian Embassy at 0730 hours this morning."

"Oh! Yes, I was there," Jack said, his eyes widening.

"Yes: Spiller received your phone call."

Jack's brow furrowed, and then he glanced over at the Inspector, still standing next to Granger. _Aha! _he thought, smugly. _That's where I know your voice from!_

"Of course, nothing's official yet, but I hope that by the end of the war…"

"If it's not official, then how do you have the right to hold us hostage?" Tintin's voice was steely. His eyes were even harder.

Jack glanced over at him, his eyebrows raised. _Well said, _he thought approvingly.

"Ah. Of course. I'd like to introduce you to some friends of mine. I'll just call them in…" Smiling at Tintin, he pushed a button on his desk.

"Yes, Mr Granger?" came a female voice, crackling from the other end.

"Let them know they can come in now."

"Of course, sir."

Almost immediately, from behind them came the sound of a door opening.

Jack turned around in his chair, twisting his neck to see who was coming in. Tintin stayed where he was, watching Granger.

"Come stand next to me, boys," Granger ordered, gesturing vaguely behind him. "You too, Pemberton. I'd like to introduce you to our 'guests.'"

Tintin counted as they made their way next to him. _Four. _Counting Granger, Pemberton, and the two guards… no, he and Jack probably wouldn't have a chance.

"Meet Vladimirskii of the NKVD, Pemberton of MI6, Yeong of the CDSA, Martin of the CSEC, and Rieu of the French Underground."

Jack glanced at Tintin to see his reaction. There was none; he didn't even say anything, so Jack decided it was probably wise to keep his mouth shut, too.

"Together," Granger continued, after it was clear Tintin and Jack were not going to introduce themselves, "we're fighting against terrorism."

"But Tintin and I aren't terrorists!" Jack blurted out.

"What? Him?" Granger steepled his fingertips again, his eyes getting a curious glint as he turned to face Tintin. "You're t_he _Tintin?"

"It's a nickname," Tintin lied smoothly.

"No it's not!"

Nine pairs of eyes were suddenly on Jack.

"He's lying," said Jack defensively. He could feel displeasure radiating from Tintin, but he continued on steadily. "It's him. The Belgian reporter. The one who's been missing for four years."

"Five," Granger corrected automatically.

"Just tell us why we're here," Tintin said stiffly.

Granger leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, but his smile returning. "Very well. Do you deny that you were at the scene of the bombing?"

"No."

"Can you explain why you paused 20 yards from the Embassy, right before the plane passed over? Why you stood and stared at the building? Why you were the only person at the scene to escape unscathed?"

"I was? Um, okay… well… I stopped because somebody I didn't like was reporting there, and I didn't really want him to see me."

"And what was the nature of your disagreement?"

"Personal."

"Very well. But if you knew the person was there, and you disliked him so much that you weren't planning on going, why were you at the Embassy in the first place?"

"Well, I meant to report, but I was in a bad mood, and I didn't want to see Harry, and I… I don't know! I just…" Jack's tone became steadily more frustrated as he realised how pathetic his alibi sounded. "What are you trying to do, anyway? Accuse me of signalling the Nazi plane? What is this? You have no right to do this! Prove to me that you're allowed to do this!"

Granger was unperturbed. "Fair enough. I don't doubt that you're innocent, Mr Davenport. I wasn't even accusing you; I simply wanted to be convinced on your innocence before I showed you this." He rummaged around in the envelope for a moment, and then pulled out a photo. It was grainy and creased; either it was old, or had just been ill-handled.

"Great snakes…" Tintin mumbled, staring at the picture. "Bird."

Granger's lip curled. "You really are Tintin, aren't you?" He turned the photo so that Jack could see. "Do you know him?"

"Max Bird!" Jack gasped. He looked at the photo for a few moments longer, and then began rambling, "I knew he was a crook, but I didn't realise he's gotten mixed up with the government. What did he do? Is he with the Krauts? Was he the one who—"

"He's in prison right now. He was sending messages to Belgium—which, as you know, is occupied by Germany—through short-length radio. We—"

"What kind of messages?" Jack cut in, frowning.

Granger cast a nervous glance at the men standing behind him. "We, uh, couldn't interpret them. And he won't exactly give us the code. But he's a known criminal, and we thought it was better safe than sorry. If you have any evidence that he may be a traitor, I ask you to share it immediately before more Americans die."

"We won't, thank you."

"Tintin!" Jack burst out, but the reporter's expression stayed unfazed.

"We're going." Tintin's face was expressionless, but a slight quiver of anxiety crept into his voice; it was betrayed by the quickening pace of his speech. "Come on, Jack."

"Really? You won't?" Granger's smile didn't fade a bit. "I thought you'd snatch up this chance for revenge, after what he did to you."

"We're going home. Come on, Jack, let's go."

Jack began, "Tintin—"

"I said, we're going _home._"

"Very well. I can't force you to stay. But don't be surprised if you find yourself in this room again." He stood, slapping his palms on the desk, and pinned Tintin with his cold, grey gaze. "We're going to protect the world, Mr Tintin, no matter what the cost. Gentlemen? Show them out."

Tintin said quickly, "We'll find out own way out."

"But I wouldn't want you to get lost."

The two guards were there before Tintin and Jack could even get out of the chairs, the chloroform-soaked rags making contact with their lips—

_"Please, Tintin," the Captain sobbed, his hands gripping the iron bars, his face streaked with sweat and tears. "Please, don't do this…"_

* * *

**Author's Note: **I seriously wanted to make this story modern just so that Max could have a Twitter account and people could read… Bird's tweets. Oh, snap!

Lol, anyway. This chapter is a bit shorter than normal, but I've been busy preparing for Thanksgiving. I haven't written in a couple days, and really wanted to post something today, so this is all I had the time to write.


	9. Subterfuge

**Chapter Eight**

"I managed to remember your street name and dragged you to your front door," Tintin said. "I had to tell the taxi driver you'd had a, er, nip too many."

Jack looked like he wanted to say something, but only managed a "How did—?" and held out his blood-covered arm while he coughed.

Tintin shrugged apologetically. "I said I dragged you." He was sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, next to Jack, who was kneeling by the toilet. Tintin was on the far end of the bathroom; the toilet, the area around the toilet, and Jack himself were all drenched in vomit. Tintin was keeping his distance; he had just picked up his clothes from the cleaners, was very glad to be out of Jack's pyjamas, and didn't want to have to wear them again.

"Oh, you didn't. You—" He tried to continue, but the only sound that came out was a strangled "Ahhggh," followed by violent gagging. He ducked his head back towards the toilet bowl and began retching again.

"Don't worry; it's only a concussion and a chloroform hangover," he said coolly. "I've had those all the time. You'll be over it soon. Well, the hangover, anyway." As if on cue, he winced, putting his fingertips to his head.

"Ugh. Yuk." Jack surveyed the vomit-splattered bathroom with dismay; his scowl deepened when his gaze found Tintin. "Hey, you look fine enough. Don't tell me you're immune to them."

"Well…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You should have seen me an hour ago."

"Why? What were you—oh, man. Oh. Ohhhhhh, my stomach!" Jack moaned, attempting to wipe his mouth with a piece of toilet paper. It fell to bits, though, so he went over his mouth again with the back of his hand. "Tintin, you have to do something about this."

Despite the circumstance, it was nice, Tintin thought, to be having this conversation. To be talking about chloroform hangovers and getting knocked out and what have you. It just hadn't happened in so long. He hadn't even had a familiar conversation with anybody in forever. He doubted Jack would agree with him, though.

"Do what? You want something to drink? You shouldn't take any liquids until it's been at least an—"

"No, no, no… I mean you can't just sit by and let those men do whatever they want."

"Are you asking because you think justice is being inhibited, or because you're angry that you have a hangover?" Tintin asked lightly.

Jack didn't hesitate to answer. "Both."

"Why not? Why don't you believe them?"

"Did you?"

"If you thought they were doing something illegal, why did you give them my name?"

Jack paused before answering, considering the question for a moment before saying,

"Because I'm sick of you hiding."

Tintin opened his mouth to answer, but the phone suddenly rang and he closed it again. Jack stood shakily and wobbled his way out of the bathroom towards his bedroom. Tintin braced his hand on the tub and stood, stretched, and joined Jack in the bedroom.

"…did you say?" Jack was asking. Tintin could hear somebody on the other line—a girl, probably, though he couldn't tell for sure—saying something in a frantic, almost hysterical tone of voice. "They just barged in?" Jack asked incredulously. "No! They didn't!… They dragged him away?" He glanced over at Tintin nervously, drumming his fingers on the desktop "Yes, there were these Nazi planes. I doubt Bird was connected to them at all.… No, I haven't… Look, I have to go, just a second."

The phone dropped to the ground as Jack made a mad dash for the toilet. There was the sound of retching, and then he reappeared by the phone a few moments later, his face a visible shade of green. Grimacing at Tintin, he picked it up. "Sorry, I'm back. Chloroform hangover. Long story… What? Gwen, calm down, okay? Calm down… can you say that agai—_What? _They have Argyros _too_?" He sunk down onto his bed with a _thwump, _his eyes wide open and staring blankly at the wall. "What the… they… They said what? No! That's ridiculous! He's left Greece _because _of the Jerries!… Oh, I'm going to tear their…Okay. Okay, okay, I'll be right over. Stay safe, Gwen…Okay. See you soon."

He didn't even say anything to Tintin as he slammed the phone down and tore into his closet, throwing a pair of cords and a polo onto the carpeted floor. Tintin decided it was a good time to leave. He swiftly exited the room, hurried down the stairs, and left through the front door.

As Tintin trudged down the sidewalk, watching the sun slowly rise, turning the black sky into grey, he realised that had no idea what Jack had been talking about.

And he realised he cared.

He _wanted _to know. It felt wrong that he had just left, without even asking. Jack wouldn't be happy about that. He would say that Tintin was supposed to be asking questions. And maybe he would be right.

He paused, glancing back at Jack's house.

_There's no point dwelling on that._

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shook his head at himself and kept on walking. He couldn't deny it: part of him wanted to go back. He liked Jack. Not in a sexual way; he was certain of that. But something about Jack made him feel… he couldn't name it, exactly. Jack didn't make him feel _young _again, because Tintin was only twenty-two; he was young by anyone's standards.

He paused as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a puddle. He looked over his reflection as best he could in the shallow, muddy water.

Maybe he saw himself in Jack.

The eager enthusiasm; the youthful optimism. Jack was young—inexperienced—naïve. He saw the world with wide-eyed curiosity, tempered with just enough shrewdness to keep him from getting killed. Tintin had been like that. Just like that.

_But that all changed._

It had been a steady decline. Up until five years ago. That was when everything plummeted.

He swallowed, trying to force away the memories, but they rushed him at full force.

When Tintin and Jack had been talking, Tintin had said that he hadn't seen the Captain in five years. That had been a lie. It had been June—or maybe May, the date escaped him—of '39. The Captain had been there, standing at the wharf, when Tintin had gotten on the boat. They hadn't spoken to each other; Tintin had been on the boat before he even saw the Captain there, so they couldn't have talked even if they had wanted to. Their eyes had met, for a brief moment—just long enough for Tintin's brain to register how old and exhausted Haddock looked—before Tintin had forced his gaze away. But he had still been able to feel the Captain there, watching him, until the boat drifted over the horizon and he couldn't see him any longer.

It had been the first time they'd seen each other for over two years.

And it was all Tintin's fault.

Part of him wanted to go back. To go back to how it used to be. He wanted to be a reporter. He wanted to have adventures again. He could turn around and go to Jack. He could say they would team up. They would stop bombings. They would clear Bird and Argyros, whoever he was.

But they couldn't. No matter how much he wanted to, Tintin couldn't do it.

He was never going back.

/

Gwen was waiting by the front door of _The Washington Daily _when Jack pulled up in his black Opel Saloon. She was in her usual baggy blue pants with the dress shirt tucked in, holding a cigarette, and slouching against the side of the building. Everything was just as usual—except it was 4 AM, the area was plated in police tape, and cops were running in and out of the building. He cranked down the window and waved, and his heart lifted as a smile came to her lips. She waved back enthusiastically, picked up her briefcase, and almost ran to the car.

"You came!" she cried, all but throwing herself into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind her. "Crikey, what a day. I've been in that stupid building for almost 24 bleeding hours."

"No kidding?

"Hah! Do I look like I'm kidding?"

He glanced over her, noting her dishevelled hair, rumpled clothes, and the heavy bags under her eyes. "Frankly, no."

"Cheeky blighter."

"You asked. So where to?" he asked. He leaned forward and revved back up the engine.

Gwen stared glumly at the windshield a moment before saying, "Jack, please don't take me home. I seriously don't feel like being by myself."

"Um, okay. No problem. Uh, I would take you home with me, but Tintin's there, and I don't think he would approve." It wasn't until after he said it that he realised that it had sounded like a euphemism. "I mean… I didn't mean… nevermind."

"Really? Tintin's there?" She didn't sound surprised, just mildly curious. "How did that happen?"

"I'll tell you on the way. Dinner? Friend's house?"

"Jack." Her eyes widened. "Please. Dinner. Please. I haven't eaten in ages."

Her Irish brogue was a lot stronger when she was enthusiastic, Jack noted. He liked it. It made his grin even wider as he pulled out onto the road and replied, "Well then, Miss Gwendolyn. Dinner it is."

/

Gwen and Jack ended up at Voltaire Fish & Chips, a nearby restaurant that was fast, greasy, and open at all hours of the day, so it was definitely a win. It wasn't the most exquisite cuisine, but neither of them cared; they hadn't eaten anything since that morning, and were just glad to have food.

They sat at a table pulled away somewhat from the late-night bustle of the restaurant, a cosy alcove plastered with various carved signatures and Wrigley's chewing-gum under the seats. Jack ordered the first steak he saw on the menu, while Gwen took a bit more time trying to find a salad that she liked.

A very nosy waitress took their orders and tried to find out why they were sitting together, but when she discovered nothing after several minutes, finally left.

"So, tell me about what happened with Argyros," Jack said, when she seemed safely out of earshot. He cleared his throat and sipped a glass of water.

Gwen speared a tomato slice with her fork. "Ahhh… you'd have to have been there. Police crawling all over the place. And I was shattered enough already. I don't mind telling you, when I heard the bomb went off… and I knew you were reporting at the Embassy…"

"I can't believe they did that," Jack muttered, when he realised she wasn't going to continue.

"Who does Hitler think he is?" she agreed.

"And Bird."

"Ugh. What a world we live in." Her eyes softened, as sympathy pricked through the hardness anger had given them. "Oh, yeah. I heard your friend Harry was there," she added quietly. "I'm sorry."

He swallowed, finding it suddenly hard to speak. "Yeah."

"Do you think Bird did it?"

"I don't know."

"Does Tintin have any theories?"

"Ha. Don't count on it."

She watched him for a few moments, and then gave up trying to get any information out of him. "Argyros was being a tool, as usual. But you really should have seen Bird. He looked absolutely shocked. He was swearing he didn't do it. He was too surprised to even resist."

"The bomb killed a hundred people, Gwen. He wouldn't just turn himself over."

"Yeah, yeah…" She nodded, frowning. "I don't know. You just should have seen him. But I guess you were busy."

"Getting drunk," Jack replied bitterly.

"Don't be hard on yourself." Quirking her lips into a half-grin, she gently punched him on the shoulder. "It's going to be tough, you know that. And if it's any consolation, if my friend passed, I'd be at the bottle for weeks. Bang plastered."

"Heh, you would be." Despite himself, he grinned. "Okay. I feel better."

Her grin widened.

/

"One moment," the guard said, nodding to Tintin as he retreated through the doors. "You may go ahead and take a seat."

Tintin nodded back and settled himself into the chair, so that he was staring at the chain link fence separating him from the chair opposite. It wasn't long, but it felt like forever before the door opened.

"Sit down," the guard barked to Bird. Bird snarled up at him, but crossed the room and threw himself down into the seat, glaring at the floor.

Tintin's mouth opened, but he couldn't say anything.

Bird was… young.

He had been expecting an old man. How many years had it been? He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't fight the feeling that Bird looked... well... _older _than Tintin did.

Their eyes met. Recognition flashed over Bird's beady black eyes, but it was quickly replaced with panic. His face twisted, overcome with terror and hate, until he snapped and flung himself out of the chair, howling, "Don't let him near me! He's mad!"

"Stop it!" the guard shouted, his voice muffled from the other side of the door.

"Take a seat, Monsieur Bird," Tintin said, calmly.

Bird glared at him. After a long moment, he groaned and shuffled back towards the chair, pulling it upright. "Well, well, well." He sat down and steepled his fingers, regarding Tintin with inquisitive eyes. "We meet again."

_Tacky as ever, _Tintin thought. "It's been a while."

"A long time. Time certainly hasn't been good to you, Tintin."

His voice was the same, too. As cynical and caustic as ever.

"Why were you charged with the bombing, Bird?" He fought to keep his voice steady and emotionless.

"You've changed quite a bit, haven't you? I saw your picture yesterday. Two days ago," he corrected himself. He cocked his head to the side and looked at Tintin with glimmering black eyes, a ghost of a grin on his lips—a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "What happened to you? Just got tired of the world?"

"Why. Were you charged. With the bombing."

"It wasn't the Nazis, I can tell you that."

_It wasn't the Nazis. It wasn't the Nazis. _

But then who?

Tintin got to his feet, and even though there was a fence separating the two of them, he could see Bird flinch. "Who was it?"

Bird's smile deepened, wider and wider until suddenly it was a scowl. "I didn't do it!" he almost shouted. "It wasn't me! That wasn't a Nazi plane! I know about planes, all right. That wasn't a German plane!"

"Then who _was_ it?"

"It was some kind of subterfuge, but look, I don't know any more than—"

"Two minutes up," barked a voice from outside the door; it swung open, and the guard from before stepped in.

Tintin got to his feet as Bird did, keeping his eyes trained on the man's face. "Who did it, Bird?"

Bird held out his hands as the guard placed manacles back around his wrists. Shrugging, he said, "Look, kid. All I can tell you is: you better not be tangled up in it. You and your friend Davenport. Not without your Captain around to nanny you."

"What? Why—"

The door slammed shut.

/

"So… what's the hardest thing you've ever done?"

"The hardest thing I've ever done? That makes for an interesting conversation." Gwen grinned, but quickly became serious again. Gwen paused a moment, her eyebrows drawing together as she searched her memories. "Well… breaking up with my ex would definitely make the top three."

"Really? You had a boyfriend?" Jack frowned. She… well, she hadn't seemed like the _type. _

"Yeah. Way too needy." Rolling her eyes, she threw up her palms in a hopeless gesture. "I just couldn't handle him anymore. He wanted somebody to mend his socks. I wanted adventure."

He snorted. "If you ever want adventure, come over to my place. Tintin's hanging out there right now."

"No, no… not that kind of adventure." The playful mood gone, she frowned slightly, and her eyes adopted a distant look. "I wanted someone who… who would take me places, who would do stuff with me. I didn't want to be his maid. I wanted to be his friend. You know. Like the way we are."

They gazed at each other for a moment, and Jack could have sworn that something—a look, a feeling, he couldn't tell what, but _something—_passed between them.

"Which is why we'd be—we'd be absolutely awful for each other," he said quickly, trying to break the sudden, unexpected mood.

"Would we ever be," Gwen said, sighing and leaning back against her chair. She exhaled loudly and glanced off to the side, as if something in the window had suddenly caught her eye.

"I mean, I'd be going off and reporting, and you'd be home cooking dinner. You would go crazy!"

"Completely bonkers."

"No way. Nah-ah, not happening."

"Totally, no. Not at all," she agreed. "It would be _awful_."

He stared at his fork for a moment, casting about desperately for something to say. _You're losing her. Keep the conversation going, Jack. _"So… what made breaking up the hardest thing, if you knew it wasn't going to work out with you?" It wasn't the best question to ask, but it was all he could think of to say.

"Oh. Well…" She shrugged indifferently. "We'd been friends for years. I had good memories of us. I was more in love with them then I was with him, and that was sort of the problem. But, you know, it wasn't the actual…breaking up… that was hard. My… my sister, Dev, she—she had just been killed. I got the telegram while he was at my house, telling him that I didn't think it was going to work out." A piece of broccoli had dropped from her fork, and she pretended to have her attention caught up in trying to get it again.

"Your sister died?" He tried to meet her eyes, but her gaze was still directed towards her plate. "How did that happen?"

"Oh, you know. Got hit by a car. Totally… totally smashed. Banjaxed. Beyond recognition, really. It was…" She swallowed, finally dropping her fork and just staring at her food, blinking rapidly. "It was… yeah."

The sound of big band music and clattering silverware drifted through the air, the only thing filling the sudden silence.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. He didn't know what else he could say.

"Dealing with that would pretty much be number one on my list. I—I wasn't going to mention it. But… I don't know…" Sighing, she slouched further back into her chair. "But… but it's okay, you know?" She gave a short, bitter laugh. "It was a long time ago. Years. I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

"Yeah." Neither of them were looking at each other, he realised. "How old were you then?"

"19."

"19?" He hadn't realised she'd meant _that _many years. "Um… I know guys aren't supposed to ask this, but… how old are you?"

"25."

"Oh." It took a second for that to hit him. "You're 25? You're only…?" He blinked, as if it would clear his vision and reveal a 25-year-old sitting before him. He blinked again. "Oh, wow. I could have… um. Uh, nevermind."

Gwen laughed again. It was more genuine this time, and good to hear. "I know. I look old for my age. Too much stress."

"Does that have anything to do with drinking like an Irishman?"

"Irishwoman." She grinned at him cockily, but her expression quickly became sheepish. "Besides, I… well, I told Argyros I was 31."

Half-chewed steak erupted from Jack's mouth as he burst out into laughter. "You didn't!"

"Hey! I wanted the job!"

Jack hurriedly attempted to stuff the food back in his mouth. "Oh, you're bad, you're really… so you're trying to tell me you dress up like you're 30?"

"Aye. That I do."

"Don't tell me you put makeup on to make yourself look older."

"Guilty as charged."

"Oh, you're _bad._"

"Yeah… I can be a bit of a snake." She grinned toothily. "Well… okay. It's more like not putting on makeup. Except eyeliner and lipstick. It's kind of like reverse psychology. It really works. I wanted the job, and so… I got it."

He surveyed her again. Since she glopped on makeup on her eyes and lips, he had always assumed that she was wearing a lot of powder, too. But knowing that she wasn't wearing any… maybe she did look like she could be around 25. "It does," he agreed. "Okay, I've having a party at my house, and you're coming dressed like a normal 25 year old woman."

"Sounds like fun." Her smile was there again.

They sat there for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"Well, it's been grand," Gwen said, stretching, "but what do you say we hit the road? I could really use a kip right now..."

"Same here. I'll drive you home."

Jack paid the bill and helped Gwen into the car. It was morning outside; a pale, bleak October morning.

It was around this time, only yesterday, Jack thought, that the bombs fell. It could happen again. And they would be every bit as helpless.

Unless, of course, Tintin decided to do something.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yay new chapter! I love writing Bird and Tintin ;) Please review! I love reviews! I need reviews! I thrive on reviews! I crave reviews! I... well, you get the idea.


	10. Too Late

**Chapter Nine**

"Thanks a ton," Gwen said, leaning in through the open car window to look at Jack.

"No problem. We should do this again sometime."

She shrugged, grinning. "I'm free tomorrow. You can take me out for breakfast! There's this little pub called Voltaire's Fish and Chips, that sells absolutely no breakfast food…"

"Ha ha, you're funny." He rolled his eyes and twisted the key into the ignition. "Okay, gotta go. See you later, Gwen."

"You too. And… Jack… stay safe."

Frowning, Jack glanced up at her, and was stunned to see the concern in her eyes. Then he remembered: only six hours ago, she had thought he was dead. His voice softened as he replied, "Oh yeah… I can come in with you, if you…?"

"No way." She shook her head and took a backwards step towards her apartment door. "I can take care of myself," she said dismissively. "Besides, it's not as there are terrorists swarming D.C. or anything. It was just one Nazi bombing. And it's not as if they're going to bomb an apartment complex."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Well… bye, then."

"Bye."

She raised a hand in goodbye, took a couple backward steps, and then turned on her heel and walked through the apartment door.

Jack watched for a long time after she left. He wasn't sure why. He found himself just staring at the door.

_Because I'm scared. That's why. I'm scared something's going to happen to her and I won't be there._

Shaking his head, he pulled out into the street and began the drive back home.

/

When Jack arrived at his house, he pulled the car into the garage, slammed the garage door shut, and staggered out of the garage towards his house. He was tired past the point of logical thinking, so his brain failed to process that the front door was cracked open until the key was already in his hand and he was twisting it into the lock.

"Oh," he said, after a moment. "Oh, no."

It wasn't _wide _open; only a crack. _Now why would they do that? _he wondered. He tried pushing the door open, but it was stuck. At first he thought that the chain was attached, but when he slid his hand upward, he found that it had been ripped off. Of course it was. Grunting, he rammed the door with his shoulder. He could feel himself pushing something heavy behind the door. Exhaustion swallowed up in adrenaline, it only took a couple more shoves to get the door open wide enough for him to slip through.

All the lights in his house were off. Early morning light filtered through the curtains in the dining room to his right, casting a faint glow over the foyer. Through it, he could make out the forms of upturned furniture, pictures lying on the floor, and—_No! Not my vase!_

Falling to his knees, Jack pawned through the remains of a Chinese vase that had formerly occupied the table now shoved against the front door. It was in tiny blue and white shards on the floor, far past the point of repair.

_If the Germans had invaded and everybody in America had been dead for years,_ Jack thought, _this is what my house would be like. Except people probably would have stolen my food._ _Which would stink, because I went shopping only two days ago._

Suddenly feeling a bit idiotic, he shook himself mentally and made his way to the light switch. He flicked it on and surveyed the room.

_Unless Tintin went on a drunken rampage, somebody's just broken into my house._

Everything had been overturned, smashed, or shattered. An end table and two salon chairs lay upended on the tile floor of the foyer. To his right, the dining room china cabinet had been opened and ravaged through. Small china figurines, candlesticks, and pieces of his parents' antique tea service were strewn on the floor among the chair legs; to his left, the living room curtains had been ripped from their rods.

Jack picked his way through the debris that was once his living room. Nothing had been spared. Every drawer, every cabinet, every shelf had been opened, cleared, and their contents tossed aside carelessly. Both couches were flipped on their sides. Strangely enough, nothing had been stolen. He could only assume that the intruder was looking for something—although he couldn't imagine what, since they'd completely ignored the few valuable objects in his house.

With a sharp intake of breath, he spotted a small picture on the ground and picked it up. It was an old photograph from when he was about eight or nine, giving a sunny smile to the camera while his mother and father looked on approvingly. He remembered when this photo was taken: almost ten years ago, on the family vacation to Florida. They'd stayed at a hotel in Miami and sunbathed all day long. A pleasant trip, all in all, but after his parents died, the photograph had suddenly seemed priceless. So he'd had it framed and hung in the living room.

Now it was on the floor, its frame broken and glass shattered. The picture was obviously damaged, and one of its corners had folded. Jack gingerly picked up the photo, brushing away the glass fragments, and placed it on the coffee table. There would be time to deal with that later. For now, he had to assess the rest of the damage.

Knowing that the intruder could still be in his house, he walked cautiously up the stairs; but a thorough sweep of his house revealed nothing but more destruction. Nothing was even taken. Just ruined. He couldn't imagine _why _anybody would do that. He didn't have enemies. He only had a few friends at the _Daily, _but as far as he knew, nobody there actively _hated _him.

_Or maybe they came for Tintin._

Jack's blood ran cold.

_Maybe they sent an assassin, a whole team of assassins, all to fight Tintin, and they'd fought, and their fighting had caused all of this._

Tintin would be dead.

And it would be Jack's fault.

Jack's fault for bringing him here, for saying his name in public, Jack had killed his childhood hero.

"Tintin!" he screamed, struggling past sofas and overturned tables, "Tintin! Where are you!"

No reply.

/

Gwen stood, searching her bookshelf, rocking back and forth from heel to toe. After a moment, she pulled out _Lady Chatterley's Lover_. It was a good old book, radical for its time, with lots of sex, passion, and unapologetic commentary on Britain's social conflict. It was very honest and unashamed, just like her, and she appreciated it for that reason. Gwen tucked it under her arm, took her mug of tea from the countertop, and made her way to her bedroom. She had a small apartment, only four rooms total—the kitchen and living room were pretty much the same—but it was comfortable, and it was bigger than what she had had in London. At least it had an office. Gwen wondered if she would even be able to afford it now; her boss was in jail, after all, and she didn't know of anybody else in _The Washington Daily _who needed a secretary. She could look in other places, of course, but she didn't really _want _to leave. She had friends at the _Daily. _Leaving would be awful.

_Well, no use worrying about that right now. _She took a sip of her tea and flipped open to page one.

Gwen was curled up in bed, totally absorbed in the novel; she had just gotten to Chapter 3, where Lady Chatterly was beginning her affair with Michaelis, when Gwen heard a footstep.

Her heart stopped.

Time passed, but the seconds went unfelt. They ticked on, slow and steady, out of sync with the beat of her heart.

Another footstep, softer now. She couldn't tell where it was coming from- maybe the hallway, behind her?

_Don't be stupid. You're tense because of the book._

Heart thudding, Gwen ducked her head back down, pretending to keep on reading, but her eyes darted frantically over the room.

_Okay. Just think. Who would want to kill me?_

Nobody. She knew the answer was 'nobody_._' She hadn't done anything. She wasn't mixed up in anything. So she was just imagining. It was the only possible answer.

Forcing herself to keep calm, Gwen flipped to the next page of the book. She stared at it as if with uncomprehending eyes, as if it has ceased to make any sense.

But she couldn't keep her eyes on the page. The strange, childish fear was still there. Every few seconds, she thought she was hearing a footstep, but she couldn't be sure- maybe she was imagining it.

_But what if somebody really is in here?_

Her hands twitched, moving towards the phone, but paused halfway. Should she call the police? Or would—whoever it was— panic when he saw her pick up the phone, and shoot?

She couldn't let him know that she was aware that he was here.

_But then what do I do?_

/

Jack's head whipped up as a familiar ringing sound came from the office, only a room away. He frowned, glancing at the hallway grandfather clock—lying on floor, but still operational. It was just after quarter to 7. He thought that was pretty early for a social call. Jack debated not answering for a moment; after all, it could be a trap. On the other hand, maybe it was Gwen, or Tintin, letting him know where he was. Or maybe it was Harry; he always got up pretty early— _But Harry wouldn't be calling. _A slight sinking feeling came in the pit of his stomach, but he shook himself mentally, trying to force away the memories that instinctively rose. There was no point thinking about that right now. Jack didn't debate for too much longer; he picked his way through the fallen furniture and walked into the office.

His hand hovered above the phone for a long moment, before he finally picked up. He put it cautiously to his ear.

"…Hello?"

"Jack?"

Gwen's voice was a whisper. Hushed. Panicked.

Her obvious fear was infectious; Jack could feel his heart start to beat harder. "Gwen? What's the matter?"

"There's somebody in my apartment."

"What?" The phone drooped from his hand momentarily, then he clapped it harder against his ear, barking into the receiver: "Who?"

There wasn't a reply. He put the phone closer to his mouth and tried again.

"Gwen, are you there?"

There was a _click, _followed by a soft buzzing sound. "I'm sorry, sir," came a professional sounding voice on the other end, "the call has been disconnected. Would you like me to try again?"

He stood there for a moment, the phone dangling from his hand, icy dread slowly closing over his entire body. His heartbeat seemed to slow. It limped painfully forward, as all the energy in Jack's body slowly drained, leaving him feeling cold and hollow and sickeningly afraid.

_Gwen._

Jack didn't know what he was doing. Everything seemed a blur. Tripping over overturned tables and furniture, he stumbled out of the office, down the hallway, and out the front door.

_Gwen._

His car was right there; the garage door was still open. He leapt into it, twisting the keys into the ignition.

_I'm going to be too late._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Wow. That chapter gave me what was probably the worst case of writer's block I've ever had. Sorry for taking so long to write this! :P It literally took me 11 days. And it's not even that long of a chapter...

Reviews would make it all worth it, though. :D


	11. Murderer

**Chapter Ten**

**Author's Note: **Seee? I said that last chapter gave me writer's block! But really, I'm very sorry for not updating; I've been very busy and haven't written much. (Just kidding, I've been watching all seven seasons of Doctor Who and haven't had time for writing, and I'm actually not sorry, I enjoyed every episode) But anyway, here you go.

* * *

Gwen closed the bathroom door behind her and slumped against the wall, slowly sinking down until she was sitting on the floor, head in her hands. She took deep, gluttonous gulps for air, trying to calm her pounding heart.

_Okay. Just… just stay safe. Wait for Jack. _

Casting her gaze around the bathroom, she mentally searched the room, trying to remember where anything sharp or pointy would be. She had cleaned out her bathroom the other day, though; she doubted there would be anything that she could really use to protect herself. There wasn't anything she could do. She would just have to sit, and wait, and listen as he came into her room and broke through the bathroom door—

Gwen's breaths came faster, shorter, but she forced herself to keep them steady.

_Just stay alive until Jack comes._

Biting her lip, Gwen thought through her situation. The intruder didn't know that she knew he was there. Maybe he would wait for her to get out of the bathroom before he attacked. So she would just have to stay in there until Jack came. And hopefully Jack would bring help—whether that mean the police, or even Tintin, or even that CIA thing he had mentioned, she didn't know or care. At the same time, Gwen knew he might get impatient.

_Get help, _her panicking brain screamed at her. _You need to get help now. _

_Click._

Was that the door handle? A gun cocking?

Think. Think. _Think. _

She heard the clattering of silverware, and for a moment, thought that maybe it was just any old robber. Then she remembered that the flat below hers had a party going on.

_Can I bang on the floor? _

No, that was way too suspicious. The intruder would know she was aware of him. And besides, they might not even hear her.

Then an idea hit her. It wasn't the best idea she'd ever had, but ideas formed spontaneously and under pressure rarely are. She stumbled towards the bath, groped for the handles, and twisted them on.

The next five minutes of her increasingly short life were spent pressing towels against the door, hoping the water that was flowing over the bath wouldn't seep through under the door. It would, however, seep through the poorly laid tiles.

Time passed. Each second rose as painfully slow as the inches of lukewarm water on the sides of the tub, and then…_Drip._

A single drop of water leaked over the side.

/

Everything seemed wrong, somehow. The miracle in Jack's life – Tintin – had turned his existence into a dream. A vague dream, shifting and ungrounded, an instable shadow, and losing Harry and having his house ransacked and having his hero be a jerk and being about to lose Gwen threw his precarious grip on reality over the edge. Everything he saw and felt seemed to be crooked, spinning, upside-down or falling over –

He realised he was speeding and slowed down. He cast a wary glance at the street about him.

At least he wasn't being chased, he thought. Then the last couple of weeks would suddenly feel like they had been a part of a cheap and over-complicated spy movie.

He nervously turned on the car radio.

_And there's still riots in the streets… _

He flipped the channel.

_…nonetheless insists that America not go to war…_

Not again!

_However, due to the recent bombings, Senator Brigham is beginning to change his views on the subject. He was quoted saying that "America shouldn't be forced to sit and suffer the slings and arrows of Germany; that it is our right, it is our duty, to take up arms against this sea of troubles, and by opposing, end—_

Swearing, he punched the off button. "You're just quoting from – from – _Hamlet_!" he shouted at the radio, and then glared at the road, gripping the steering wheel in frigid silence. A siren wailed in the background – _curse those riots! – _and it was at that time that he decided to hang the law and drive as fast as he had to, because hang it, Gwen was in danger, and who cared if the police came, they could give him a hand – _why didn't I call the police?_

He took a moment to mull over that question. The answer that came to him was surprising: _because you suspect them._

He didn't have any grounds for this, necessarily. But something seemed off about this picture, and that whole eff-bee-eye thing was one of the things that was – dare he say – scared him the most. Granger was the most suspicious of them all. Even more than Bird.

Although Tintin wasn't exactly _in the clear_ either.

_Come on come on come on come on come on…_

Almost at Gwen's flat – he could see the building already.

_Come onnnn…_

/

"Kingsley! Something in your flat's leaking!"

Gwendolyn almost screamed with relief, but managed to hold it back in time. She sunk to her knees, biting her nails, taking deep shivering breaths.

"You alright?"

She realised had failed to think through this part of the plan, concentrating instead on how she would stay alive. Gnawing her fingernails, she cast a desperate look at the door. Did she say anything or not? What would bring them in here?

And then she thought: _If they come in, what if they get killed?_

"Gwendolyn?"

She didn't recognise the voice, but she didn't care; she couldn't hold back any longer. "I'm here!" she screamed, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. _No, _she shouted at herself, _that was stupid, what did you just do…_

/

Jack was at the door, he kicked it open, he had his fists raised, any villain had better get out of the way or –

"What are you doing here?" he asked, falteringly.

Tintin didn't turn around. "I had a feeling they'd be after her." He shrugged. "I was right."

"Who's _they?_"

Tintin stepped aside.

There was a man lying on the floor behind him. For a moment, Jack thought that he was tied or something, and that's why he wasn't moving. But then he saw the blood.

"You killed him?" he finally asked. His voice sounded thick and dull.

Gwen appeared from around the corner. Jack didn't have time to react; she flung herself against him. He put his arms around her in an awkward hug, looking up at Tintin with a confused expression, and then back down to Gwen. She wasn't sobbing, but she seemed very nearly about to be.

"Jack!" She sounded almost angry. "What _took _you so long?"

"I got here as fast as I—" His gaze drifted over to the body. "So, what happened?"

"Tintin was fighting him… his gun dropped to the floor…" Gwen took a step away from Jack and crumpled onto the nearest chair. "I shot him."

"You…?"

"There wasn't anything else she could do," said Tintin, quietly.

He shook his head, somehow unable to understand what was going on. "Yeah, but—"

"I'm making tea," Gwen interrupted, getting to her feet.

"But Gwen—"

"You two figure out the legal stuff. You're reporters and all, right?"

"Sure, whatever, but—"

Tintin put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "Jack, leave her alone."

"What?" Wincing at the sudden touch, he drew back. "But we can't just—"

"We'll call the police."

_No, _Jack thought. _Not them. _"Okay," he said. He could still feel his heart racing from the adrenaline of having to get to Gwen's house on time – if only he'd known that Tintin was there already! He was almost cross, for no good reason. It wasn't as if he wished Tintin had gotten there late. And it wasn't as if he had a desperate urge to come out the hero. He just – he didn't know, it just didn't feel _right._

"Jack, can you get to my study?" Gwen called, from the kitchen. "I left my driver's licence on the table. The police might want it."

"Okay." He sighed, stretched, and walked through the hallway, trying hard to ignore the body on the ground.

It didn't take long for him to locate the study – an unornamented room that's small size was made even smaller by clutter. The only decoration was a banged-up green desk lamp and a photo on the wall of Gwen and who he guessed was her younger sister, Dev. He looked at it for a long moment. Dev looked a lot like Gwen, just a decade younger, and he began to feel sad looking at it. Like he was seeing a piece of Gwen that wasn't there anymore.

_Focus. The driver's licence. _The desk was stacked chest-high with paperwork and half-finished drafts, and he wasn't even sure where to start looking.

"Gwen? Where did you say it was?" he called.

Her voice came muffled and indistinctly from the kitchen: "On the desk!"

"Right. On the desk. On the desk…"

Shuffling through the piles of papers, it took a moment for his brain to respond to the fact that he had just seen Tintin's name on a yellow file.

He froze.

"Found it yet?" Tintin called, from the living room. There was the sound of footsteps, and then the man was standing in the office doorway.

Ignoring the reporter, Jack held the file up to the light of the floor lamp next to the body. The light illuminated the ink letters on the thick, tan paper; he twisted the metal wires and forced the file open.

"What is that?"

Tintin's voice was coming closer from behind him, but didn't turn around to face him.

"Tintin." He pulled the pages out of the folder and glanced over them. His gaze was casual, at first. But then he paused. His heart stopped.

"What?"

Jack's mouth opened to form an accusation, but the words died on his lips. He swallowed, but his throat was still dry and he couldn't get the knot to go away. He could barely comprehend what he was seeing. It was impossible.

"Tintin, this says… this says…" Wetting his lips, he pulled out another page, and scanned it warily. It said the same thing. This one even had a picture. It was Tintin, a couple years younger, but with the same tired, bitter expression he bore so often now. "Says…"

"What?" Tintin's voice was harsher now. It was almost threatening.

"You killed her." His voice was quivering, and he couldn't control it. Shakily, he put his fingers to his forehead and dragged them down to his chin, blinking rapidly. "Tintin, you… you killed Dev. You killed Gwen's sister."

Tintin didn't move. He stood there. His expression didn't even change. He just stood there. Not responding.

"So, what? You're just gonna, gonna stand there?" He sucked in his bottom lip and took a deep breath, trying to fight the tears stinging his eyes. "That's what you're gonna do?"

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, and his voice was flat.

"I don't know, I don't know, I just, I…" He could feel himself becoming hysterical. He shook his head and glanced down at the floor, struggling to pull himself together before he met Tintin's gaze again. "I – I don't know! You just – you just – Tintin, you killed her!"

"I know."

"You're a… you're a murderer. You are. You… you're a…a murderer." His voice was low and faltering, but it quickly gained volume and frantic anger until he was shouting feverishly, "You smashed her with a _car_— you _smashed_ her! You— you killed her! You killed a six-year-old girl! You killed her! You killed h—"

"Do you think I don't know that?" Tintin screamed.

The reporter was inches away from Jack, his face white with sudden fury, his hands clenched into shaking fists. Jack took a hasty step backwards, unable to respond, just staring.

"Don't you think—" he spoke in a trembling hiss as he jabbed an accusing finger at himself – "Don't you think I hate myself enough already?"

For a moment, it was just glaring eyes and shaking fists. And then Jack choked, "I hate you."

Tintin was almost sneering. "Me too."

"No, no. I don't think you understand." Although Jack was laughing as he said it, there were no more traces of his previous hysteria, and when the laughter died, it gave way to the hatred and revulsion that had been right behind it. "I _hate _you. I _hate_, I _hate_, I—" But he stopped himself midsentence. The lump was rising higher in his throat; his whole throat hurt, and he could barely speak, let alone rant. Swallowing hard, he shoved past Tintin and through the door. The room around him was a distorted blur. Gwen was standing near the door; she asked him what was going on, and he said something about needing a walk and shoved past her, too.

/

He was halfway through the park when he saw a figure silhouetted against the harbour lights. It could have been just any hobo, but Jack knew better. The tall, thin frame, with the long scarf and the quiff –

Jack wanted to turn away, but didn't. Instead, he leaned against a nearby elm and watched.

There was a pause – a short one – and then Tintin fell.

Jack lunged forward, as if he could catch him, but didn't actually go near.

But Tintin didn't fall into the harbour. He dropped to his knees and looked up at the sky, arms stiff and pressed against the rocks of the harbour wall.

The sound came quietly at first; it was almost inaudible. But it wasn't long before Jack realised that Tintin was crying. At one moment, it was a shoulder-quivering sob. The next, it was a broken scream. Those were the only sounds – the waves lapping against the harbour wall, and Tintin's scream.

Jack's jaw tightened. He turned around now, away from the harbour and it's waves and glowing lights. He began to walk towards the city. Towards Gwen, and whatever was left of the future he had there.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Was that enough plot to make up for my very long absence? ;)


End file.
